Worlds in Chaos (11 page)

For a desk and a base to work from in the Washington area, Keene rented space at an agency called Information and Office Services. Shirley, who ran the facility and acted for him when he was away, had arranged several Monday appointments from the calls that had begun coming in on Friday. The first was not until 10:00, and Keene spent the first part of the morning returning other calls that Shirley had listed. One was to a David Salio, who described himself as a planetary scientist at the Aerospace Sciences Institute in Houston, which Keene had visited on occasion. The Kronians had been getting attention in the Web news groups and independent media of many like Salio who were not among the circle of academic and government scientists fearful of money being diverted into the space corporations. Salio had favored the young-planet theory of Venus for some time and possesed a sizable collection of facts and data supporting it from modern-day space and scientific researches, independent of what ancient writings said. Athena was a clear warning that action had to be taken along the lines that the Kronians were calling for, and he wanted to know what he could do to help. Keene was immediately interested to hear more and suggested stopping by on his way back to Corpus Christi, which would be via Houston in any case. He would let Salio know when he had a firm return date.

Next was somebody called Barney from one of the Washington-based news services, who had tracked Keene down through his connection with Amspace. “What, you’re in Washington now!” he exclaimed when Keene called. “Hey, never mind taping an interview over the phone. We’ll send a couple of guys over to the hotel. It works for a better atmosphere. How would four o’clock suit? It’ll still be going out by this evening. Don’t worry, we do it all the time. No problem.”

Keene checked with his schedule and agreed. A couple of other concerns were happy to tape from the hotel, and a science magazine with a local office arranged to send a feature writer over that evening, after the TV taping. Keene spent some time confirming and fixing more appointments for the next two days that he would be in town, then left for his first meeting that day, which was with one of the senators for Texas in an office in the Senate Building.

In a TV interview over the weekend, the senator had told the reporter of the need to bring companies like Amspace to heel and enforce a greater compliance with “social responsibility.” He explained to Keene that he had to talk that way in order to preserve an acceptable public image. “But I want the people at Amspace to know that they can count on me to be realistic too.” Which could be taken as a warning or a wink and a nod, but either way translated into: “Keep the contributions coming and pray.” Keene tried to broach issues that went beyond appeasing activist groups while at the same time keeping the corporations sweet, but made little impression. The senator lived in his own world.

Lunch was with a documentary producer called Charles McLaren, whom Keene had known amiably for about two years. McLaren wondered if Friday’s event might resurrect the general nuclear-antinuclear controversy for a while and was thinking of putting together a fast tie-in for the public-affairs channels and newsnets. Would Keene be willing to act as a consultant again on short-call if they went ahead? Sure, Keene agreed. McLaren put accuracy before sensationalism and was meticulous in trying to get his facts right; Keene knew he could be sure of getting fair representation. But it was with weary assent. The discussion was pitched at helping a good technician do a job relating to a topic that was expected to be transient. There was no suggestion of a documentary to tell the world that it had come close to seeing the end of its civilization.

By early afternoon, he was in the cocktail lounge of a hotel off Pennsylvania Avenue to meet one of the technical aides to President Hayer. He wanted Keene to convey unofficially back to the management of Amspace, and through them to other allied interests, that as a sop to domestic outcries and world opinion it might be necessary to pass a bill banning the launching of nuclear devices from U.S. territory by private corporations. But the message was to keep up the development effort because provision could be engineered for a repeal in circumstances deemed vital to national security—but not until after the presidential election next year. In fact, the defense agencies were stressing the Chinese threat and could probably be induced to channel in some discreet funding to compensate for the shorter-term inconveniences. The aide paused to assess Keene’s reaction, then asked, lowering his voice to impart a note of confidentiality, “Out of curiosity, what would be the chances of matching the kind of propulsion the Kronians have, say within five years—given a suitable financial incentive? The Air Force already has an eye on extending its activities to trans-lunar distances. I can tell you that they for one are particularly interested.”

“Give me the top ten names in contained plasma dynamics, superconducting cryogenics, spontaneous vortex computational theory, and nuclear transition phases, get rid of all the political obstructionism, and you can have it in three,” was Keene’s answer.

The aide looked intrigued. “Really? And you know who these people are?”

“Sure I do. It’s my field.”

“Just suppose, for argument’s sake, that we decided to try and get them to come over to work for us here, in the States. What do you think it would take? Is it something you might be able to help us organize?” The aide paused as if pondering a point of some delicacy. “I’m sure we could see fit to being . . . extremely generous.”

“I’m not sure it’s something that we have options on anymore,” Keene replied. “They all moved to Saturn.”

Keene grabbed a half hour to stop by at the agency and check on things with Shirley, then returned to the Sheraton to freshen up and change before the Kronian reception at seven. By that time he had consolidated his thoughts sufficiently to call Marvin Curtiss, Amspace’s president and CEO, to update him on the situation that Cavan had described the evening before, and Keene’s further impressions after his day in Washington. It was all pretty much in line with what Curtiss had been finding out independently.

“It doesn’t look as if we’re going to be able to count on much support from the main contractors,” he told Keene from the hotel room’s terminal screen. “They’re taking the line that it isn’t the business of corporations to decide what’s scientifically true or not. That’s what we’ve got universities and national laboratories for.” He didn’t have to add that it also meant they could look forward to a continuation of low-risk contracts that referees from those same universities and laboratories would feel comfortable with and approve, and which wouldn’t frighten investors.

“I don’t know, Marvin,” Keene sighed, tired after a long day. “How do you deal with it?”

“Just keep saying what we’ve always said: that we believe the claims the Kronians are making deserve serious consideration, and everyone should forget their vested interests and try to be open-minded to what appear to be the facts.” That was what Keene had expected. If Curtiss weren’t a fighter, he would hardly have been running an operation like Amspace to begin with. Curtiss went on, “One thing we might try is getting Les working on organizing more voice and visibility for the scientists out there who have been taking a more independent stand—like this character Salio that you talked to. We need people like him.”

“I’ve arranged to meet him on my way back,” Keene said.

“Good. Find out what his story is and who else he talks to. Maybe we don’t have to let the establishment have a monopoly on the media.”

“What about the political side?” Keene asked. “How much do you trust this talk about a defense loophole and Air Force money coming through the back door if that bill goes through?” That news hadn’t come as a total surprise to Curtiss, who had apparently heard something similar from another source.

“If it happens, then fine, but I’ve always believed in insurance,” Curtiss answered. “I’ve been talking to the people here about bringing forward the schedule for getting Montemorelos operational.” He meant the backup launch and landing facility being constructed in the highlands not far south of the border—outside U.S. jurisdiction. “Not marginally, but making it our top priority.”

“That makes sense,” Keene agreed. “But it might only tide us over for a while. The Mexicans are still vulnerable to pressure from our side.”

Curtiss nodded. “I know. Beyond that, we’re reviewing the options we’ve negotiated on possible sites farther from home.”

“I think there’s some for lease at the original Tapapeque complex in Guatemala,” Keene said.

“There is?”

“So I heard around a month or two ago.”

“We’ll look into it.” There was a blur in the foreground on the screen as Curtiss checked his watch. “I’m due for another appointment, Lan. It should be interesting meeting the Kronians tonight. Call me tomorrow and let me know how it went.”

“I will,” Keene said. “Take care, Marvin.”

Keene still had some time before the TV reporters were due. Out of curiosity, he scanned the news searcher for items relating to the Kronians and selected one of the current leaders, which turned out to be an NBC panel hookup to debate whether ancient sources constituted a valid basis for formulating scientific beliefs.

“Absolutely not!” was the opinion of a speaker, captioned as Dr. William Ledden, an astronomer at the University of California. “Repeatable observations and measurements determine what is properly termed science. What writers of old manuscripts say happened, or think happened, or think ought to have happened simply has no place . . .” He waved a hand agitatedly, as if too exasperated to be capable of further coherent thought.

A gray-haired woman, president of an archaeological society in Vancouver, agreed. “It has taken centuries to establish reliable methods and standards for disentangling fact from fancy. I agree with Dr. Ledden. This kind of thing will probably sell some Sunday supplements, and we’re going to be hearing a lot about it in the news, but it has no place in science.”

“So you’re saying we should be good hosts and neighbors, but not get carried away by this,” the moderator checked sagely.

“Exactly.”

That line seemed to be the consensus of the others. The converse view—rather timidly put, Keene thought—came from a historian and author somewhere in England. “I hesitate to cast the dissenting vote here, but is it unthinkable that peoples of ancient times might have described events that they actually witnessed, and maybe have something important to tell us?”

“It’s scandalous that we should even be discussing this!” Ledden fumed. “Why are people who call themselves scientists concerning themselves with Biblical quotations? Are we going to be talking about walking on water and dead bodies coming back to life next? The Kronian phenomenon grew from a quasi-religious cult. This whole business is an attempt to give credibility to scriptures by means of concocted pseudoscience. Very possibly there’s fundamentalist money behind it. They’ve got to be supporting themselves out there somehow.”

Keene grew more perplexed as he listened. The Kronians had never made any appeal to scriptural beliefs. They used Biblical references purely as accounts of historical events, and then only where corroborated by other sources. The Englishman tried to make that point but was ineffective.

Barney’s TV crew showed up on time, but the interview, conducted on the grassy riverbank at the back of the hotel, was aimed too much at trying to provoke Keene into admissions of the dangers of nuclear devices in space. The journalist who arrived afterward had a more balanced approach, but they got deeper into technicalities than Keene had anticipated and ran out of time, arranging to continue over breakfast the next morning. Finally, Keene boarded the cab that had arrived to take him to the Engleton.

“So how was your day?” the cabbie asked over his shoulder as they pulled out from under the lobby canopy.

“Never a dull moment,” Keene told him with feeling. “How about you?”

“Aw, not so bad. You know how it is. Just a couple of years more of this to bring a bit more money in, and then it’s retirement. Just me and the wife now. We figure we’ll move to Colorado. Got some grandkids there. Mountains, scenery. Nice place to take it easy.”

“Sounds great,” Keene said from the back seat. Sometimes he had to remind himself that most people—probably the vast majority on the planet—didn’t think too much about Athena, or care—one way or the other.

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