Margaritifer Basin (Margaritifer Trilogy Book 1) (44 page)

            “Doctor Frederick, it’s fifty-year-old technology.”

            “Colonel, from a technological standpoint, the
wheel is far older, but it still works.”

            As bowls of New England clam chowder were set
before them, Sylvia turned back toward the President and Dr. Fairfax with a
look of resignation.

            The President nodded. “Admiral?”

            “Thank you, sir. I too have read your Senate
testimony, Captain, and I understand your position on issues of planetary
protection and sample return.” The science advisor grinned. “Certainly COSPAR
restrictions are a minefield, and I can’t fault you with your reticence to
return samples. Perhaps we can talk more about that later but, for now, how do
you propose to deal with the possibility of forward and, more to the point,
backward contamination by… you?”

            Jeff glanced to his left. “Sue?”

            “Admiral, in short, we don’t. Indeed, how could
we?”

            Admiral King frowned. “Excuse me?”

            “Sir, planetary protection hinges on the notion
of the prevention of transport of bio-organisms from one planet to another. How
does one reconcile that with manned exploration of space? The very notions of
planetary biologic protection and manned exploration are completely
incompatible. We
are
biologic organisms. You cannot bake astronauts at
250º Fahrenheit for a week. Either we set aside the issue of planetary
protection or mankind doesn’t go – ever.”

            “Doctor, this has been argued before and your
point, of course, is well made – with regard forward contamination. But what of
backward contamination? I understand full well that, to date, no life has been
found on Mars. That does not – by definition – mean that it does not exist.
Hypothetically speaking, what if there is in fact organic life on Mars that is
potentially hazardous?”

            “Sir, from the time we land on Mars until our
scheduled return is a bit more than two years – more than a sufficient
incubation period for virtually any conceivable organism. If something does
exist on the planet that is harmful to human life, we will not be returning,
and you will have your answer.”

            Mrs. Surtees, seated beside Susan, suddenly
dropped her soupspoon and stared at her in horror.

            Susan turned and smiled. “It’s quite alright.
There is no life on Mars; it’s a dead rock in space and we have every intention
of returning very much alive and well.”

            “There may not be life on the surface,” the
President said, “but what of the suggestion that life does exist in underground
pools of liquid water?”

            Susan nodded. “That is possible, sir. But if it
does, we are not going to be bothering it. We have no plans for any drilling.
Whatever may reside a thousand kilometers beneath the surface, we’re quite
content to leave alone. Besides sir, if I may, science fiction writers enjoy
regaling us with tales of horrific alien creatures but, practically speaking,
why are we so certain that evolution on other worlds proceeds down a
dramatically different path than that here on Earth? Is it not just as likely
that some primitive organism living deep beneath the Martian surface is no
different than primitive organisms living deep beneath the surface here? In
which case, what difference does it make? Sir, human nature leans toward fear
of the unknown. Our plan is simply to go there and answer the question. Let’s
find out.”

            As the staff began removing empty soup bowls and
replacing them with sumptuous plates of filet mignon, Maine lobster, potatoes
au gratin, and steamed asparagus with hollandaise sauce, the Vice President
turned to Jeff. “Aside from the technical matters and difficulties – many of
which I’ll freely admit are beyond me – do you understand the true nature of
the difficulty the government faces with your mission?”

            Jeff nodded. “Of course we do, sir. If we
succeed, the government will be faced with a great many very hard questions.
Not the least of which is: If a lottery winner from southern California can go
to Mars, why can’t NASA? It is a dilemma.”

            “Exactly. And how would you respond to that?”

            “Me, sir? I wouldn’t. Indeed, I’d probably be
the first one to ask the question. Sir, if NASA had a concrete plan to go to
Mars anytime in the, well, foreseeable future, I’m pretty sure I’d be finding
something else to do with my money. But it has no such plan. It doesn’t even
have a plan for a plan. In my opinion sir, the question needs to be asked and
the government needs to have an answer.”

            “But Captain, you could be lighting the fuse on
an enormous crisis of confidence that could extend far beyond the government’s
plans – or, as you suggest, lack thereof – for manned space exploration. This
could shake the very foundations of government.”

            “Indeed it could, sir. But personally, I think
the people have a right to know how the sausage is made.”

            The President chuckled.

            “So, is that what all this is really about?” the
chief of staff asked. “A monumental political protest?”

            Jeff shook his head. “No sir, not at all.
Honestly, we don’t care how the government answers the question or, for that
matter, if it even has an answer. Our motivation is really quite simple: We, as
President Kennedy said, choose to go; because we can, because no one else wants
to and, as Mallory said, because it’s there.”

            “Ms. Mallory, how’s your lobster?” the President
asked.

            Chrissie smiled, “Delicious, sir.”

            “Good. Commander Nolan? The wine is not to your
liking?”

            Abby shook her head. “Oh, no sir, it’s wonderful
but, uh, we’ll be flying back to Newport this evening and I’m the designated
pilot.”

            The President grinned. “Ah, an unfortunate
occupational hazard?”

            “Yes sir, sometimes it seems that way.”

            Pausing between bites, Sylvia Creighton asked,
“Captain, I’ve been in space. I’ve flown three Shuttle missions and spent six
months on the ISS. Do you and your people truly comprehend what you are getting
into? Do you really understand the physical rigors of months on end of
weightlessness and the psychological impact of long-term confinement? In other
words, do you really know what this will do to you?”

            Jeff glanced to his left. “Sue?”

            “Colonel, the literature on space psychology and
physiology is vast, and we can read. And, though I don’t mean to minimize the
subject, there’s a first time for everything.

Weightlessness? Well, we’re not entirely unfamiliar with it.
All of us are pilots and we have, on more than one occasion, flown our Citation
out over the Atlantic and had Abigail here scare the living daylights out of us
flying elliptics in our own little version of the Vomit Comet. The experience
is, uh… enlightening. You – professionals – may look down your nose at our
feeble efforts but I can assure you with confidence that our training regimen
is sufficient for the task. Further, we believe we may have one significant
advantage over NASA: we live, eat, breath and work together, day in and day
out. Indeed, we all live under the same roof. And, by launch date, we will have
lived as such for four years. We know one another’s quirks and idiosyncrasies
all too well. There will be no surprises.”

            “Doctor, I’m sure your program is well thought
out and well intentioned, but…”

            Jeff interrupted, “Colonel, do you know who
Bobby Jones was?”

            Looking a bit surprised, she shook her head.
“No, I’m sorry I don’t.”

            “Ah. Well, Bobby Jones was an amateur golfer
back in the 1920s. He won the United States Open Championship four times. Jack
Nicklaus tied that record. Tiger Woods has, so far, failed.”

            Sylvia looked puzzled. “Well, that’s all very
interesting, but…”

            “Colonel, amateur and professional are just
words in the dictionary. What someone actually accomplishes is what counts.”

            Sylvia smiled. “Yes, but…”

            The President interrupted her. “Thank you
Colonel.”

            The main course complete, the staff began
serving desert – chocolate mousse.

            “Captain, if I may ask, what is your budget for
this?” said Dr. Fairfax.

            Jeff smiled. “We don’t have one. It will cost
what it costs. That said, we presently anticipate somewhere between two and a
half and three billion, give or take.”

            “You’re kidding?” the President interjected.
“Your launch costs alone…”

            “480,606 kilos, $3,273 per kilo, uh…” Gabe
momentarily glanced at the ceiling, “… $1,573,023,438, and change.”

            There was an awkward moment of silence, everyone
across the table staring at Gabe.

            “Did you just do that in your head?” said the
President.

            As Gabe nodded, a horrified expression came over
her face. “Oh god,” she said under her breath, quickly rose and headed for the
hall.

            All the men at the table quickly began to rise,
followed by all the women as the President rose.

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Oh lord.” He glanced down the
table at Susan and jerked his head toward Gabe as she disappeared from the
room.

            Susan nodded in understanding and smiled. “Excuse
us please.” And she hurried off in Gabe’s wake.

            The President turned to Jeff. “Is she alright?”

            Jeff grimaced and nodded. “Yes sir, my
apologies, she’ll be fine. Nervous stomach.”

            “Ah, understandable. Perhaps we have laid it on
a bit heavy.” He took his seat. “Did she really do that math in her head?”

            “Yes sir. Though that’s the first time I’ve
heard her get to ten significant digits. She usually stops at five or six.”

            “Good lord.”

            “Can she count a box of toothpicks that drops on
the floor?” the chief of staff smirked.

            “Dr. Frederick is not an idiot savant!” Abby
snapped. “She’s just a hell of a lot smarter than the rest of us.”

            The chief of staff coughed and grinned in
embarrassment. “My apologies. That didn’t quite come out the way I meant it.”

            After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence the
First Lady audibly cleared her throat. “Would anyone like coffee?”

            The President nodded. “An excellent idea.”

            A few minutes later Susan appeared at the door,
caught Jeff’s eye and gave him a ‘come hither’ look.”

            “Excuse me,” Jeff said, rose from his seat and
headed for the door.

            In the hall Gabe stood shifting uneasily wearing
her ‘panic attack’ face. Jeff walked up to her. “How you doing?”

            Gabe hung her head. “I interrupted the President
of the United States. Oh my god, what was I thinking?”

            Jeff laughed softly.

            Gabe glared at him. “What is so funny?”

            “It’s fine Gabe, you were great. In one rather
brief display of basic mathematics you put an exclamation point on the fact
that we are not idiots. Now, come on, chin up. There’s still work to be done in
there.”

            Gabe sighed. “Can’t we just go home?”

            Jeff shook his head. “Soon. But we still have
work to do.” He glanced at Susan, who wrinkled her nose and nodded as to say
‘she’s alright.’ Jeff in turn nodded in understanding. “Okay, come on.”

            As they reentered the dining room and the men
started to rise, Jeff held out his hand and shook his head, then seated Gabe
and Susan.

            The President raised an eyebrow at Gabe.
“Feeling better?”

            Gabe grinned sheepishly. “Yes, sir. Thank you
for asking. This is unfamiliar territory for me.”

            “Perfectly understandable, young lady. Since the
inauguration, I doubt a single day has gone by that I haven’t found myself
reaching for the Alka-Seltzer. This house will do that to you.”

            Gabe laughed softly. “Thank you, sir.”

            The President rose, followed by everyone else.
“Fire engine red doesn’t suit my mood at the moment. What say we continue this
in the Green Room? Perhaps an aperitif? Except for Commander Nolan for whom we
probably have any non-alcoholic beverage you’d like.”

            Abby grinned. “Coffee is just fine, sir. Thank
you.”

            “Ah yes, you Navy people don’t have blood. Your
veins are running with coffee. Right?”

            “Yes, sir. That’s about it.”

            As the group strolled to the Green Room, the
President walked alongside Jeff. “Bobby Jones, huh?”

            Jeff smiled.

            “Now that’s an analogy I would not have thought
of.”

            “I have found, Mr. President, that this line of
work sometimes demands imaginative solutions.”

            The president laughed. “I’ll bet it does at
that.”

            In the Green Room, Admiral King approached Jeff.
“If you don’t mind, can we return briefly to the subject of planetary
protection? Specifically, sample return? Are you really serious? That is, if
you were to go forward with this mission, you would not return samples?”

            “Completely serious, Admiral. As you said, it’s
a minefield. I’ve had a bit of experience with minefields, and I am simply not
interested in going there. If someone else wants to work out the details and,
more to the point, pay for it, fine, we’ll be happy to oblige. But otherwise?
Not a chance.”

            “To go all that way and bring back nothing? I’m
sorry but, it borders on criminal.”