The Throne of Saturn, page 9
“Nor to me,” the president agreed, and instantly their hopes shot up again. “Except”—and down they came once more—“that there is a small matter of funding, a small matter of priorities, a small matter of a country whose domestic and defense needs are so great that I can’t for the life of me see at the moment where the money is coming from. However”—and again his face relaxed into a smile and again they were encouraged—“don’t all of you look so gloomy. There are ways of doing things and perhaps we can manage a few of them.”
Down the table Dr. Freer cleared his throat.
“I think we can, Mr. President,” he said, “if you give them your absolute and complete dedication.” He paused and then added quietly, “Not otherwise.”
For a moment they thought the president might be angered, but he was a shrewder and tougher man than that. He offered Al Freer a small bow, ironic but respectful.
“That is correct,” he said. “That is absolutely correct. Now what I want you all to tell me this morning is what I can expect from you if I do give you my complete and absolute dedication in return. Start with yourself, Dr. Freer.”
“Very well,” Albrecht Freer said in a firm, precise voice. “We now have some 12,000 people still employed at KSC and the Cape. We have our two Apollo launch pads, A and B, at Launch Complex 39, idle most of the year but in excellent standby condition. I am confident that in a month, with the proper announcements and the proper financial inducement, I can restore a working complement of 25,000 men and women to the Cape. I have plans on the drawing boards for a possible Pad C that might be needed in a Mars flight—will, I think, be definitely needed now that time is of the essence. Given funding for sufficient crews and overtime, I can have it ready in three months.” (Somewhere down the table someone probably from North American Rockwell, whistled softly.) “Three months,” Albrecht Freer repeated firmly. “I am not talking now, you understand, about child’s play. I am talking about serious man’s business, a real attempt to go all-out and win this thing. That, Mr. President, is what the Cape can do for you, if you say the word—and really mean it.”
“And Huntsville?” the president asked.
Hans Sturmer leaned forward with a little smile that somehow looked patronizing, though he did not intend it so.
“Marshall Spacecraft Center, Mr. President,” he said in his guttural accent, still heavy after more than three decades in the country, “is ready when you are ready. We have plans, designs, mock-ups, everything you could require. We must know, of course, the nature of the mission and what is demanded and expected of it: that I think we must determine here this morning, if I may suggest. But whatever it may be, you will find us ready.”
“Very commendable,” the president murmured with a slight smile.
“It is our job,” Dr. Sturmer said, a trifle stiffly. The president nodded.
“And superbly done,” he said matter-of-factly. “And the scientific sector, my distinguished friend down the table, there, from JPL?”
“As you know, Mr. President,” Vernon Hertz said, “all through these years since the Moon landings we have maintained a steady program of unmanned probes of the planets. These have yielded very satisfactory results, particularly from Mars and Venus. We have very elaborate atmospheric analyses, surface soundings, photographs, maps, surveys—the lot. I agree with Hans that we have to decide here this morning exactly what we want this mission to be, and what we want it to do. Given that, I believe JPL will be found to have on hand almost everything you might need. If not, we can easily get it within any reasonable lead time such as we will obviously have to adopt here. I know the same can be said for Ames, Langley, and the other research laboratories, which are working on such things as waste elimination, food supply, life support, and the like. We’re in good shape.”
“Excellent,” the president said. “And the contractors?”
“We’re like Al Freer, Mr. President,” Jim Matthison said. “Give us the money and we’ll recall the crews and do the job. In this I can say I’ve been authorized to speak for the other prime contractors: Douglas, Boeing, Bendix, Grumman, IBM, and the rest. You tell us what the mission will be, what Huntsville and Houston want us to do to modify the Saturn for planetary flight, what’s going to be required of the vehicle at launch and after, and we’ll get it ready for you. Maybe not in three months”—he smiled and shook his head with an expression of disbelief—“but just as soon as we possibly can. The planets won’t turn very far in their courses before we’ll have the Saturn ready for them.”
“Forbidding things, aren’t they?” the president said with a sudden expression of distaste. “I don’t envy the boys who have to go there. Which brings me, Houston,” he said, and he looked down the table and smiled at Dr. Cavanaugh, at Bob Hertz and at the three astronauts sitting side by side, “to you.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim Cavanaugh said gravely. He looked down the table and back again and suddenly his face relaxed in a smile.
“Houston,” he said, “is ready to go wherever you send us, whenever you send us, anytime, forever, and always. We’re ready. Man, are we ready!”
At this, as he had intended, they all joined him in laughter. Then he became serious again.
“Actually, Mr. President, we maintain such a steady course of training, even in the relative standby era we’ve been in, that we could quite literally, I think, field a crew to Mars in three months. It would be close, but we could do it. Isn’t that right, fellows?”
“I believe we could,” Hank Barstow said.
“No doubt about it,” Bert Richmond agreed.
“And what,” the president asked, “says the captain of this gallant band? How do you feel, Colonel Trasker?”
For a moment Connie did not reply, staring thoughtfully off into some distance visible only to him.
“It all depends,” he said, finally, “on the general timetable you set, and on how big a crew you want to send. Twelve men and twelve months—maybe. Three men and three months—maybe. Twelve men and three months—with all respects to Jim Cavanaugh and my colleagues—no, sir. We couldn’t do it. The bigger the crew, the longer the time. It’s one of those axioms. We could force a lot of things if we have to—and apparently, we do have to—but crew can only be forced to certain limits.” He smiled at Vernon Hertz. “It just goes to prove what the scientists are always telling us—men are so unreliable. If we were some of their little machines, we’d be off and flying tomorrow morning. But with us you run into the human factor—if you want the human factor. And I take it the Russians are aiming in that direction”—the president nodded—“and therefore, I would assume we are, too. All I ask is that you not crowd my crew too much. First decide when you want to go, and then we’ll decide how many we can send. There are certain parameters we have to work within, just by virtue of being men. You give us the job and we’ll do it—but in terms of the job, not in terms of some dream of what would be nice if we were superhuman instead of human.”
He stopped, looked embarrassed, and sat back, to the murmured approval of his colleagues from Houston and a good many others along the table. The president leaned forward and in the crisp tones that came next they could recognize why he happened to be where he was.
“Thank you, Connie. That was an admirable statement, and it brings me exactly to the point we have got to wrestle with here this morning. It’s all very well for JPL and the research labs to be confident. It’s all very well for Huntsville to tell me everything’s ready and waiting, it’s fine for Dr. Freer and North American Rockwell to assure me they can do the job in three months, or six, or whatever. But what I want to know is exactly what problems remain to be solved, exactly where we stand with them, exactly what, in your estimation can be done to speed them up without sacrificing quality and safety—in other words, exactly what we need, and how fast, to get ready. And without a lot of crap, I might add, about how you aren’t sure how many billions it will take, but if I’ll just give you as many as you ask for, it will all work out just dandy. I can’t give you as many as you ask for, so get that through your heads right now. I can give you a substantial amount of it, and with that you will just have to make do. And if I decide to approve this, I shall expect you to make do.
“Now. From what we have received from the satellite in the last twenty-four hours, and from other intelligence sources we’ve called on since the pictures began to come in, the Russians have a certain lead time problem, too. They aren’t about to launch from Stalin tomorrow morning, either. They’re still in the preliminary stages themselves, but since they do have a very substantial space station, and we have only our piddling little Mayflower up there, they can launch from there and it gives them a very substantial advantage. We are probably going to have to launch direct from Pad A, Pad B and”—he winked at Dr. Freer, who responded with a delighted smile—“Pad C. Which brings me, Huntsville, back to you. Dr. Sturmer, how soon is that NERVA nuclear engine going to be ready?”
“On a crash program,” Hans Sturmer said with a crispness equal to his, “starting from the point we have already reached with our continuing experiments and planning, here in the late seventies, we can have the new engine ready in six months. It will give us all the propulsion to maintain a steady course to Mars, orbit, and return. But again, we will have to know the size of the expedition, the length of it, and what will be asked of it. That, too,” he could not resist adding, “is a practical consideration that must be decided.”
“Before we leave this room,” the president promised. “And the laboratories, Dr. Hertz? What about the food problem? What about life-support problems? What about the scientific instrument packages you will want to send on the expedition?”
“I repeat, Mr. President,” Vernon Hertz said quietly, “we’re in the same position Hans is in—that we’re all in. We’re beginning to see daylight on a lot of these things—we’re in the home stretch. We can move faster and be ready in six to eight months—if that’s what you want. You name it.”
“The same with us in the plants,” Jim Matthison volunteered.
The president nodded.
“And Houston?” he inquired. “How about the medical experiments, the physiological tests, the psychological tests, the experiments that determine how much the crew can take? The necessary modifications to the booster, the command module, and the landing module?”
“Insofar as men can, Mr. President,” Dr. Cavanaugh said quietly, “we have determined all these things. I still think Connie made the main point. When—and how much—and how long—and how many?”
“Eight months from this day,” the president said.
There was a lengthy silence, during which they all looked at one another in a speculative, thoughtful way. It was broken finally by Bob Hertz.
“I assume that’s the best estimate of when the Russians will be ready?”
The president smiled.
“A little short of it.”
“Very well,” Bob said, jotting notes on his yellow pad as he spoke. “That gives us something definite. On that basis, assuming everybody puts in a superhuman effort, I would say three vehicles and three or four men, for an expedition to last approximately eighteen months—eight months out, eight back, two in orbit around the planet conducting experiments. Vehicle I would carry the Mars Landing Module. Vehicle II would carry the Command-Service Module. Vehicle III, possibly manned by two men, would carry your scientific and medical experiments. Connie would be in command of Vehicle I and in overall command; Astronaut X in command of Vehicle II; and Astroscientists Dr. X and Dr. Y in command of Vehicle III. The modules would dock in space and proceed in tandem.
“A slight reduction from a twelve-man crew,” he said, smiling at Jim Cavanaugh, “but still, a practical version of Planetary Fleet One that we can all live with if we have to. And I take it we have to.”
The president chuckled.
“Have you ever thought of being Director of the Budget? I could use that kind of practicality and decisiveness right in that exact spot.”
Bob Hertz smiled.
“No soap, Mr. President. I happen to love space.”
“And thank God for that,” the president said. He looked sharply down the table from face to face. “Gentlemen, are we agreed on that mission configuration and that timetable? If we aren’t, say so.” He smiled. “I’m not entirely unreasonable, you know. You can have an extra day or two, if you really need it.”
“Huntsville can live with it, Mr. President,” Hans Sturmer said.
“And the Cape,” said Albrecht Freer.
“Speaking for the contractors,” Jim Matthison said, “it will take some doing, but I think we can make it.”
“We’ll be ready,” said Vernon Hertz.
“Houston can manage quite comfortably, I think,” Dr. Cavanaugh said.
“Good,” the president said. “That’s decided. I shall go on television at 6 pm this evening and tell the country all about it.”
“How much can we have for it?” Bob Hertz asked quietly. The president uttered a delighted laugh.
“Always my practical one! I have to have some secrets. Suppose you listen to television, too. I promise you it will be enough. Not enough to waste, but enough to do the job. Fair enough?”
“With some misgivings,” Bob Hertz said, “I shall echo, ‘Fair enough.’”
“Fair enough!” the president said, and laughed again.
There was a general stirring, a stretching and relaxing after tension, a general preparing to rise. The president held up his hand and abruptly it ceased. An attentive silence settled again.
“Now with that decided, I need your advice on one other matter, which is rather delicate. As you are aware, there are certain highly vocal critics of the space program who have long been opposed to any Mars expedition and are especially opposed now that it appears that we may be entering a new competition with the Russians. I don’t impart any invidious motives to them for this, it’s just the fact: whenever the Soviet Union is involved, they become twice as frantic in urging their own country to take a back seat. I have never understood this, but there it is.” He paused and gave them a candid look.
“There it is, for me as a president, as a politician, and as leader of this country. It creates certain practical problems, both politically and as regards the public climate in which we are to make this effort.
“You have all seen some of the papers this morning, and probably some of the television broadcasts. The usual wrecking crew is out full force against any attempt by us to overtake or beat the Russians. I, like you, happen to believe we must. I, unlike you, have to consider public opinion and the practical requirements of leadership in the kind of climate these people can create if I make no attempt to appease them and ignore their outcries completely.
“Now: let me ask you this, Bob, or any of you—have we ever received from the Russians any evidence of genuine cooperation in space since the whole space business began?”
“Never!” Hans Sturmer spat out.
Albrecht Freer nodded vigorous agreement.
“They always want to go through our plants and find out what we’re doing,” Jim Matthison remarked, “but they never tell us what they’re doing.”
“In fairness,” Vernon Hertz said, “two or three vaguely worded scientific papers, at various international meetings each year, usually about some space achievement they made ten years ago. Almost nothing current, and nothing at all of any real substance.”
“The cosmonauts sure believe in loading us with vodka when we go over there,” Bert Richmond recalled with a reminiscent smile, “but they sure as hell don’t tell us anything.”
“They never cooperate,” Hank Barstow said flatly. “We’re wide open and they’re tight as a drum. There’s no argument: it’s historical fact.”
“Also, in fairness,” Bob Hertz remarked, “they did sign the space treaty.”
Albrecht Freer gave a skeptical snort.
“Subject to cancellation without notice,” he said dryly. “And launching themselves immediately, in violation of it, upon a constant program of testing weapons systems in space which continues to this day.”
“Therefore,” the president said calmly, “I take it you would be somewhat dismayed if I were to issue a formal invitation to them to participate jointly in the expedition to Mars?”
Bob Hertz shrugged.
“It’s already been tried, years ago, and they turned it down. Why try again?”
“Particularly,” Dr. Cavanaugh said, “when we start from behind the eight-ball, and it would put us in the position of looking as though we were begging favors from them.”
“To say nothing,” Connie Trasker remarked, “of the fact that our technology is still a long way ahead of theirs, Space Station Stalin or no Space Station Stalin. So, we give more than we get if we let them in. Right, Vernon?”
“That’s right,” Vernon Hertz said. “The American problem,” he added wryly, “is very simple: lots of brains but no money.”
“Then I take it you’re unanimously against any such invitation,” the president said. He nodded. “So am I. It won’t be issued. But I thought I should get your advice.” He smiled his most engaging smile. “I may have to quote you, if Percy Mercy or the Times or somebody like that gets too severe.”
“Please do,” Dr. Sturmer said. “I should be honored.”
“So would we all,” Bob Hertz agreed.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the president said pleasantly, and rose to his feet. “I think we have accomplished a good deal this morning. If I had some champagne on hand, I would propose a toast to Piffy One. Since it’s too early in the day for that, you will just have to rest assured that you have my respectful and earnest good wishes and my every support.”
And he left them happily aglow with the knowledge that though he had given them a hard and difficult task, they could rest confident and happy in the certainty of his support; not aware at that moment that to a president “support” means many things and takes many forms, not all of them exactly what his listeners may assume when, in the first bright enthusiasm of the moment, he utters words which to them appear as direct and unequivocal as words can be.
