The Next Continent (25 page)

Shinji and Sohya were at the Gotenba multidozer production facility and proving ground at the base of Mount Fuji. The facility also served as the control center for multidozers on the lunar surface. Shinji shuttled back and forth between Gotenba, Tsukuba, Tanegashima Space Center, and other research facilities, helping to maintain the virtual private network between the different project teams.

“I've only met him a few times, but Iwaki seems to like efficiency,” said Shinji. “Sending robots to the moon is more efficient than sending people, so he should be happy with that.”

Sohya was calibrating the telemetry data sent by Dozer 1 with the data coming from the multidozers at the proving ground. “Now that you mention it, I remember him saying that when a machine makes a mistake, it's a mistake of the people who built it. If a machine's reliable, it's not necessary for humans to go to the moon.”

“So why are we working so hard to send people there?” murmured Shinji.

“If you want a technologist's opinion, the answer is simple: because it's possible.”

“Because it's possible? That's backward. First you've got to have a goal. What you want to find out is whether your goal is feasible or not.”

“That's what most people would do,” said Sohya. “Take Kennedy—he started the Apollo program before he even knew if a moon landing was possible.”

Shinji smiled faintly and shook his head. “We're a different breed. If it's doable, we do it, whether it's necessary or not. Oppenheimer built the bomb. Genentech made Nellie and Mary, the first human clones. The last big general construction company built a tunnel under Tsushima Strait. Ethics and cost/benefit aren't in the equation.”

“Are you saying Sixth Continent is another boondoggle, Shinji?”

“History books a hundred years from now may say it was the biggest folly of the twenty-first century—wasting precious resources to colonize a planet with no practical potential for development. We could just stick close to home and look after the environment.”

Sohya frowned. Shinji added casually, “But folly is all right. Even folly can advance human culture. Even if Sixth Continent shuts down after a year of operation, it will have been worth it as far as I'm concerned—even if all we get out of it is pure technological advancement.”

“You're more of a cynic than I thought.”

“People who might be working on the next A-bomb should at least be aware of the possibility. I mean, look—are you certain this project is for the best?”

“Well, I'm like you. I can only see so far. But I agree with Gotoba's take on things. Progress means creating something where previously there was nothing. Building habitats for people on a desolate place like the moon is proof of that progress.”

“Sounds like your take isn't that different from mine,” said Shinji.

“You're right. We've both got swelled heads.” Sohya chuckled. Shinji looked up from his monitor and stretched.

“With my personality, I could've easily ended up doing obscure research for some metal refiner rather than developing something revolutionary like TROPHY. But I'm not, thanks to Ryuichi. I have to hand it to him, he's got a lot of passion.”

“I envy him. He's a straight shooter. I can easily picture what he'd think of this discussion.”

“No, you're wrong about that,” said Shinji before Sohya could say anything further. “He'd say, ‘Young people shouldn't worry about other people's opinions. Don't think. Get moving!'”

“You're probably right.” The two men laughed.

“Come to think of it, it's amazing that so many people with different viewpoints are working on the same project. Some of us want to test the technology, some of us want to build, and some of us just want to go there.”

“You forgot one motivation. Some of us want to make money.”

This caught Sohya off guard. “You mean Reika Hozumi? I guess money should really be the main reason. This whole thing is private enterprise. It's hard to think of a project less suited to making money though.”

“As far as Reika's concerned, money's the only thing. Oh well, whatever it takes to motivate her.” Shinji whistled as he began running a stress test on the link to TGT's Yokohama Data Processing Center. “Ah yes, money…”

As ELE's auditor, Reika was like a human calculator. Was she interested in anything else? Shinji glanced at Sohya a few times before speaking.

“I'd say you have less to worry about than anyone else on that account.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have just the right balance of enthusiasm and doubt. I envy Ryuichi, but I also envy you.”

“I'm not sure what that means.”

“See?” Shinji laughed again. “That lack of self-awareness. Just what TGT's president preaches: no doubts.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Sohya. He pretended to be hurt, but in fact he didn't mind Shinji's ribbing. Representatives from space agencies around the world referred to him as “Professor Tai,” yet he was as unaffected as ever, liked by everyone. Sohya felt fortunate to be able to work with a man like Shinji. He was certain that someday Shinji would be mentioned in the same breath with pathfinders like von Braun and Korolyov.

TROPHY'S SUCCESS GENERATED
a storm of calls and emails to Tenryu Galaxy Transport. As usual, many came from crackpots and clueless amateurs, but there were also more than three hundred serious offers from space development companies. Most of these feelers were for launch services using the revolutionary Adam and Eve rockets, for purchase of entire launch vehicles, or for TROPHY engines. But Ryuichi had to choke back his tears and refuse them all. Sixth Continent had booked all of TGT's launch capacity for the next six years. Ryuichi would be unable to service other clients for quite some time.

Launch vehicles and engine sales also presented problems. In 1969, Japan's Diet had resolved that the nation would use rockets only for peaceful purposes. But in those days, “rocket” meant “missile,” and the resolution became an obstacle for exports. This Cold War holdover prevented Japan from exporting the LE-5A, its first domestically produced rocket engine. That was in 1988.

Japan's government had grown more pragmatic on such matters, but the '69 resolution continued to hinder space-related commerce, like a useless antique no one was willing to discard. Japan's bureaucrats winced at the prospect of exporting TROPHY. TGT might be a private company, but most of its facilities, technology, and personnel had formerly been under government control. In the end, TGT did not have the leverage to overcome bureaucratic resistance. If overseas buyers could not lay their hands on the real thing, they would have to examine published documents and attempt to build a TROPHY engine themselves.

Still, for a world groaning under the unbelievable cost of putting a payload into space—three hundred thousand yen to put a single gram into low earth orbit—TROPHY was a gift from heaven. For only 1.6 billion yen, an Adam rocket could put as much payload into low earth orbit—a hundred tons—as the Soviet Union's titanic N1 rocket.

In the seventeenth century, passage across the Atlantic in a sailing ship cost the equivalent of two years' wages for a laborer; jet aircraft reduced the cost to a few tens of thousands of yen. Now nations and corporations around the world were vying to develop TROPHY-equipped launch vehicles. The wheel was about to turn once more.

ON HER FIRST
flight to Tanegashima, Reika Hozumi realized that her outlook on life had changed.

Until then, everything for her had been about numbers. As ELE's auditor, she had reviewed the expenses for every division. The only question on her mind was whether spending would yield profit. ELE was an integrated entertainment enterprise, but life on the inside was not all dreams and fantasy. Instead, just as the company delivered a carefully calibrated experience to its visitors, it stringently tracked each and every yen, reckoning its profits precisely. This was Reika's job. In her mind, if an activity did not create profit, it was nothing less than chicanery, even if it was positioned as service to society.

Then Ryuichi had thrown her world into chaos.

Profits? Unnecessary. Service to society? Secondary. The goal was pure flight. To Reika, Ryuichi's obsession seemed a frighteningly personal, almost childish hobby. Yet she could only be astounded that this hobbyist had taken on the government and giant corporations, built a private company as his personal vehicle, nurtured an astonishing new invention, and was now positioned to make enormous profits.

By working with him, her world had broadened. It was not only that Ryuichi was extremely capable. He was continually pushing forward, almost heedless of those around him. The passion, the psychological fire that animated him, burned brightly. Sometimes this energy was destructive. How many times had he bellowed at her when she'd tried to knock some sense into him with graphs, charts, and formulas? “That's beside the point!” was his mantra. Everything that stood in the way of successfully launching Eve, Adam, and
Apple
was irrelevant. Return on investment? Cost/ benefit? Beside the point—things would work out in the end. And indeed they had, and he kept moving ahead, always confident that they would. In a sense, Reika saw him as wisely reckless.

So when Ryuichi said he'd be in the
Apple
capsule for the first training exercise of Japan's first manned spacecraft, Reika was hardly surprised. Instead she was concerned, and for the first time she worried about his recklessness and where it might lead, rather than simply viewing his seemingly rash decisions with contempt.

Reika got the news flash from TGT during an auditing meeting at ELE headquarters. It was then that she realized just how afraid she had been. There had been a wiring fault in the capsule—and a fire.

All that was needed to send her running out of the meeting were the words “capsule” and “fire.” TGT's Tobishima factory was close to ELE. She rushed there in a taxi, but Ryuichi had already been taken to a hospital. When she arrived at the emergency room, Ryuichi had embraced her with his bandaged arms.

That was a year ago. Since then, Reika had come to realize that no woman before her had ever argued so much with TGT's president. She hadn't laughed at his dreams or stood noncommittally watching from a distance. She was the first to meet him head-on, the first to refuse to bend.

“I have to admit, it's fun having a worthy opponent.” Ryuichi stood with Reika on the catwalk at TGT, looking down on the first flight-ready
Apple
spacecraft. “And you certainly are worthy, Ms. Hozumi. Hey, it's a compliment.”

“Can't you find a better way to compliment me?” Reika sulked and looked away, then leaned her shoulder against Ryuichi. “And please don't call me ‘Ms. Hozumi.' My name is Reika.”

“Sure. Reika. As I said, I do enjoy catching hell from you.”

“That is not a compliment!”

They watched the activity in the assembly room as they bickered. Surrounded by technicians swathed in clean suits,
Apple
awaited its baptism by fire.