THE UNIVERSE — or nothing

by Meyer Moldeven

THE UNIVERSE — or nothing
Table Of Contents
About Meyer Moldeven
Also by Meyer Moldeven
The Preface
The Prologue
Chapter ONE
Chapter TWO
Chapter THREE
Chapter FOUR
Chapter FIVE
Chapter SIX
Chapter SEVEN
Chapter EIGHT
Chapter NINE
Chapter TEN
Chapter ELEVEN
Chapter TWELVE
Chapter THIRTEEN
Chapter FOURTEEN
Chapter FIFTEEN
Chapter SIXTEEN
Chapter SEVENTEEN
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Chapter NINETEEN
Chapter TWENTY
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
Chapter TWENTY-SIX
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
Chapter TWENTY-NINE
Chapter THIRTY
Chapter THIRTY-ONE
Chapter THIRTY-TWO
Chapter THIRTY-THREE
Chapter THIRTY-FOUR
Chapter THIRTY-FIVE
Chapter THIRTY-SIX
Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN
Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT
Chapter THIRTY-NINE
Chapter FORTY
Chapter FORTY-ONE
Chapter FORTY-TWO
Chapter FORTY-THREE
Chapter FORTY-FOUR
Chapter FORTY-FIVE
Chapter FORTY-SIX
Epilogue
Afterwords
Appendix
The References
Words With(Out) Diacritics
Creative Commons License
about "zen markup language"

About Meyer Moldeven

Meyer (Mike) Moldeven was a civilian logistics technician with the United States Air Force from 1941 until 1974. He was an aircraft emergency survival equipment specialist in the Pacific Area during World War II and a technical writer for several years afterwards. During the Cold War he transferred to a USAF base in North Africa where he developed logistics plans for USAF-NATO emergency maintenance of disabled aircraft that would land along the North African coast after returning from missions in any future war with the USSR. During the U.S. post-Sputnik initiatives to create a national space program, he critiqued aerospace industries' logistics concepts on future space systems organization, infrastructure and support. Among the studies he critiqued was 'Space Logistics, Operations, Maintenance and Rescue' (Project SLOMAR). During the Viet Nam War, he was the senior civilian in the Inspector General's Office at McClellan Air Force Base, a major logistics installation near Sacramento, California. As part of his 'added' duties during 'Viet Nam' Mike was a hotline volunteer in a suicide prevention center and consequently, an advocate for professionally-staffed 'suicide prevention' capabilities throughout the entire Department of Defense. He compiled documentation, published, and widely distributed copies of his book, "Military-Civilian Teamwork in Suicide Prevention" (1971, 1985 and 1994.) Mike's updated essay on suicide prevention in the U.S. Armed Forces has been included in his collection of memoirs, "Hot War/Cold War — Back-of-the-Lines Logistics", which is at: http://hometown.aol.com/yarnspinner7191/ myhomepage/military.html

Also by Meyer Moldeven

Military-Civilian Teamwork in Suicide Prevention
Write Stories to Me, Grandpa!
A Grandpa's Notebook

The Preface

"It is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow." — Dr. Robert H. Goddard

"There is no way back into the past; the choice, as H. G. Wells once said, is the universe — or nothing. Though men and civilizations may yearn for rest, for the dream of the lotus-eaters, that is a desire that merges imperceptibly into death. The challenge of the great spaces between the worlds is a stupendous one; but if we fail to meet it, the story of our race will be drawing to its close." — Arthur C. Clarke

The Prologue

The Present

A conclusion in the Report to the Club of Rome: The Limits to Growth states: "…within a time span of less than 100 years with no major change in the physical, economic, or social relationships that have traditionally governed world development, society will run out of the nonrenewable resources on which the industrial base depends. When the resources have been depleted, a precipitous collapse of the economic system will result, manifested in massive unemployment, decreased food production, and a decline in population as the death rate soars. There is no smooth transition, no gradual slowing down of activity; rather, the economic system consumes successively larger amounts of the depletable resources until they are gone. The characteristic behavior of the system is overshoot and collapse."

Jeremy Rifkin, President of the Foundation on Economic Trends and the Greenhouse Crisis Foundation, in Biosphere Politics: A New Consciousness for a New Century (Crown Publishers, New York 1991) reports how industrialized and developed nations exploit the sea beds of the world for their rich deposits of industrial minerals and metals. He notes that the struggle between rich and poor nations and multinational corporations over minerals in the vast oceanic seabed is likely to be heated in the years to come, especially as reserves of land-based minerals approach exhaustion.

News media reported in October 2000 that the People's Republic of China announced plans to explore Earth's moon for useful substances. On October 15, 2003 the PRC launched into Earth orbit its first manned rocket.

In a speech on January 14, 2004 the President of the United States of America unveiled a new vision for space exploration. He called on the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) to "…gain a new foothold on the moon and to prepare for new journeys to worlds beyond our own."

"We do not know where this journey will end," said the President, "yet we know this: Human beings are headed into the cosmos." White House Press Release, January 14, 2004.

The Future

The Interstellar Mining and Teleport System

The System consists of two terminals, each of which includes an integral, fully robotized capability to conduct internal command-and-control, self-maintenance and repair, and logistical, teleportation, communications and other functions and operations essential to its unique mission. The terminal positioned in orbit above Alpha Centauri is designated the Extractor and the terminal positioned along the Solar System's rim is designated the Collector.

The Extractor selects and draws pre-designated elements, minerals and other usable substances from the Alpha Centauri star system, and collects, accumulates, converts and channels the matter into its spunnel transmission subsystem for direct interstellar transfer to the Collector.

The Collector receives the product, converts it into its original form, identifies, classifies, quantifies and records constituents and mass; refines and ejects the raw product for transport to and storage along the solar rim or at a location that Authority determines to be more suitable.

The Extractor and Collector terminals are constructed four million kilometers beyond Planet Pluto. During the System's research, development, test, evaluation, engineering, construction, launch and voyage phases, the terminals are spunnel-linked and tested both as separate machines with their support systems, and as the integrated master scheme.

During construction the System is linked to Planet Pluto, employing mass attractors, orbital dynamics controls and stabilizers, and other means, as appropriate.

The System Authority possesses and Commands a
Self-Defense Force under Powers delegated by the
President of the United Inner Planetary System
(UIPS).

At launch, disengage the Extractor fleet from the Solar System's gravitational and other constraints employing Planet Pluto's outbound orbital momentum plus augmentation thrusters in a manner that the Extractor fleet retains its integrity in transit to destination, and on station in perpetuity.

Position the Extractor in orbit above Alpha Centauri at a location commensurate with data provided previously by drone scouts. Authority, at all times, maintains surveillance and exercises control over operations and support systems, and analyses of the Extractor's functions, structures and equipment.

The Collector is positioned along the solar rim, or elsewhere, as determined by Authority. The Collector is fixed to the Extractor's product launch nodes, functions and operations, and to the Extractor's orbital dynamics at destination.

The Extractor, operating at destination, analyzes, selects, and draws substance from proximate asteroids, comets, satellites, planetoids, space debris, swarms, star surfaces, subsurface and other accessible bodies and strata, reduces the substance to teleportable constituents (the product), loads the product into launch hoppers and dispatches it to the Collector.

Critical to the program's success is timing the Extractor's launch. Piggy-backed to Planet Pluto during construction, the Extractor uses the planet's orbital momentum for launch. The launch window is precise and short-lived along Planet Pluto's outbound orbit; there is only one launch opportunity in centuries for the Extractor.

Disengaged from Pluto, the Extractor fleet accelerates along its course to optimum velocity through integrated thrust of augmented thrusters or other more advanced propulsion systems that are or become available in time to accomplish the Objective.

The Terminals and their command and control, supporting research and development schemes and projects, facilities, spunnel teleport and other logistics and communications networks, surface and space stations and outposts is formally designated The Interstellar Mining and Transport System. Authority acknowledges that the mission, launch and assets acquisition processes intrigued the whimsical fancy of the solar community during pre-program definition studies and the System was nicknamed "Slingshot".

THE UNIVERSE — or nothing

Chapter ONE

The recon-patroller's leg and torso-pads fine-tuned their tensions as Lieutenant Pete O'Hare shifted position. His eyes ranged the banks of flickering lights around him. An aberrant indicator caught his eye and he mind-stroked a sensor control. Satisfied, he moved on; the greens held firm.

Planet Pluto arced into view from starboard, half a million kay distant. The mottled moonlet, Charon, orbited the mother planet tightly. Only tanktown Coldfield's dome and its hard unblinking lights broke Pluto's drab crust. A dozen or so rutted trails formed a network that connected encapsulated outposts to each other and to Pluto's solitary city.

The recon-patroller's omni-directional screen displayed the huge cylinder that floated in space behind him, its gravity-enhanced rotation barely perceptible to O'Hare's vision. Five-meter high orange letters glowed brightly along its blunt bow and stern, and on each quarter sector of its exposed surface, proclaiming the huge cylinder as the UIPS SLINGSHOT LOGISTICS DEPOT.

Space transports, no two alike, rode their magnetic-beam's moorings along the Depot's flanks. Space tugs and barges labored in all directions, taxis charged about, and space-cranes swayed above dozens of platforms that protruded from the Depot's hull.

Leviathans off-loaded to barges as other ships in a multitude of shapes and sizes grappled with cargo from flex-conveyers that snaked from the Depot's gaping portals. Slender, multi-armed space cranes raised and lowered crates, bundles and modules, and arranged, aligned, connected and disconnected gear and cargo in all directions.

Aggregations of netted or tethered girders, platforms, multi-meter-wide conduits in hundreds of shapes and lengths, and modules linked by stabilizer-beams crossed open spaces, pulled or pushed by robot tugs controlled from the station's cargo control centers. In trains or clusters, machines traversed the open stretches between the Depot's portals and nearby transports in their final step toward a long journey.

The brightly checkered Depot slipped from O'Hare's screen. A deployment station to O'Hare and hundreds of his colleagues, and to more than four centuries of his predecessors, the Depot was as much home to him as his permanent station afloat in space between Earth and Luna.

"Time," O'Hare silently flashed the code that opened his spunnel channel to Keeper. "This is a Slingshot Tac Ops from Red Fox to Keeper. I am hot to trot on Point Charlie off Fandango Force Field. All coordinates green for Scout Operation Xray Delta slash Four. Time for go is 2112 slash 14 Solar. Keyed to transmit status on Spunnel Channel 9212, scramble 38. Confirm. Over."

The response was equally silent, registered directly in his consciousness. The message's clarity was unaffected by passage through hundreds of spunnel boosters that linked O'Hare to a shielded bunker beneath Luna's surface.

"Keeper to Red Fox. Your orders to scout Planet Pluto Zone confirmed. You are cleared to start at 2112 slash 14 Solar. Spunnel 9212 slash 38 is open for your transmissions. You are spunnel-psy monitored by Spacetrack Ceres. Out."

O'Hare tensed, psy-blinked his view screen down to the instruments vital to his immediate mission, and mind-keyed several controls. The fifteen-meters-long vessel, with a barely two-meter beam, swooped low and snapped into its run barely fifteen meters across Pluto's desolate plains.

The view screen readouts showed subsurface galleries, several outlined in irregular outlines but empty, others reflected high-mass warship configurations. He focused to adjust his instruments for deeper penetration.

Quite suddenly, O'Hare's vision blurred. His head and body swelled. In an instant, his brains, bones and guts burst and splattered the cockpit as his ship exploded.

Lieutenant Jake Ramirez smoothly accepted the target blip that registered on his mind-screen. It instantly displayed the target's dimensions, mass, spin, velocity and coordinates. As the data strung out Jake whistled, soft and low. He tapped the channel traffic override to the Depot's spunnel booster.

"Spunnel Flash to Keeper. Switch to Scramble 2." Jake flipped the key and, without pause, mind-cast his alert.

"Blue Fox to Keeper on Scramble 2. Message keyed at 2115 slash 14 Solar. Request Spacetrack Ceres verify ship's position and readings. Field is about one-fourth by three-fourths kay, depth one-fourth kay. No organics. Neutronic penetray analysis shows that in addition to thermonuclear power plants the aggregate includes machined parts configured to Catalog 11 long range lasers, explosive decompressors, particle beamers and gun mounts. I suspect this is a cache of contraband ordnance and spares positioned for pickup by Planet Pluto insurgents. Orders? Over."

"Keeper to Blue Fox. Spacetrack Ceres confirms unregistered objects proximate your position. Ceres' sensors verify the findings. Space Force concludes the stores present an immediate threat to Slingshot. Your orders: Destroy the cache immediately using your Type K1 nuclear explosive missile setting: Baker Two Seven. Launch at not less than 15,000 kay. Remain on station and follow up. Search out and dissolve all residues; use your laser-doubles at setting 8. Report when task completed. Your Tac Ops and psych systems are monitored. Start now. Out."

Keeper's message simultaneously loaded into the recon-patroller's computer as authenticator for the mission and demolition and laser gun settings. The computer adjusted thrust and vector to bring the ship to the 'fire' point and engage the countdown and sequence to launch, arm the warhead, and follow up. Missile launch was at six seconds.

Without warning, the computer froze. The frame of the pilot's enclosure glowed red, then white. An instant later the ship disintegrated into thousands of metal and composite fragments, and shards of what had been human flesh and bone.

"Flash — Spunnel Transmission Priority One. To Supreme Commander, United Inner Planetary System Space Force, Earth Headquarters, from Keeper, Luna Station. Attack report. Repeat: attack report. Recon-patrollers R-19557, Red Fox, and R-87265, Blue Fox in Planet Pluto Special Zone on recon missions under Keeper control, were attacked and destroyed by particle beams; attack times: Red Fox 212014; Blue Fox 215514.

"Beamers fired from unidentified batteries, source Sectus Gorge, coordinates GT165, Planet Pluto. The UIPS patrollers were on directed Tac Ops missions: cite our messages to Red Fox and Blue Fox past half-hour, info recorded in Tac Ops Actions Register, your Headquarters. Regret to inform you that no life signals emanate from Red Fox and Blue Fox wreckage. Spacetrack Ceres will monitor for survivors. Ship recovery and investigation teams dispatched from Log Depot to both sites. Out."

"Flash To President, United Inner Planetary System from Supreme Commander, Space Force. This is my initial report of attacks on two of our recon-patrollers while on UIPS-directed missions in the Planet Pluto Special Zone. No survivors. I conclude that Plutonian weapons destroyed both ships. UIPS ships and support stations sunside of Neptune hold on Defense Alert Level Two. Defense Alert One remains in effect at Slingshot construction site and throughout Plutonian Special Zone. Details follow."

"To President, UIPS from Commander, Space Force. Copy to each Senior Elder of the General Assembly, to Ministers of Intelligence and Diplomatic Protocols, and to Slingshot Director. This is follow-on to my initial report of attacks on our recon-patrollers in Planet Pluto Special Zone. Recon-patroller Red Fox was destroyed while on assigned mission to scout Special Zone to locate launch and support sites for spacecraft that present a clear and present danger to Slingshot. Thirty-five seconds later, sister ship Blue Fox, on directed survey of the Planet Pluto Special Zone for unregistered space debris and contraband was similarly attacked and destroyed.

"Transmissions from the patrollers Tac Ops systems, and scansplays of their external observations ceased instantly at time of attack. Note that Spacetrack Ceres' reports of the events, confirmed by Keeper, indicate conclusively that in the last few milliseconds of functional stability before the ships' defenses were breached their damage report systems salvoed message bursts to spunnel boosters. The signals confirm that each patroller had been the target of long-range particle beamers.

"The missions of the two patrollers have not been completed. Although the Red Fox scout mission can be rescheduled, we must be prepared for an increase in such attacks throughout the Special Zone. Blue Fox was four seconds from a missile launch to destroy a cache of contraband, and was attacked before it could complete the task. Consequently, Plutonian insurgents have now added significantly to their already large stores of space weapons.

"Repeat alerts have been spunneled to Commanders of UIPS ships, posts and stations throughout the UIPS, and to all UIPS vessels that enter or are in the Outer Region; also to ships under way, and at space and surface moorings. Note that UIPS ships en route to Slingshot, the Log Depot, and work sites have been on Defense Alert Red since the Outer Region seceded from the old United Planetary System, therefore Slingshot readiness in their sectors remains unchanged.

"This completes Commander Space Force Attack
Report."

Chapter TWO

Rymer Camari, President of the United Inner Planetary System entered his official residence's conference room in a brisk walk, a loose, gray ankle-length robe draped about his thin shoulders. He nodded perfunctory greetings to his Ministers of Intelligence and Diplomatic Protocols, and to the Commander of the UIPS Space Forces as he took his seat at the head of the long table. An abundant mane of white hair framed his aged features; his stony glare reflected the rage they shared.

A panel in the wall slid upward to reveal a two-meter square well. A cylindrical view tank filled its available space. The tank cleared to the United Inner Planetary System's standard simulation. Colored and geometric symbols glowed the real time positions of UIPS planets and their natural and artificial satellites and outposts, schema of space traffic lanes, space spunnel booster stations, the Asteroids, and the twenty Guardian Stations equidistant along the Asteroids' outer perimeter.

Stroking a key embedded nearby in the table the President brought the Strategic Concepts Computer on line. "Computer," he said, "integrate these proceedings into the database. Follow, analyze in depth across-the-board and display."

Turning to the Space Force Commander he said, "What's the situation, Jim?" His voice was flat with the effort to control his anger.

Admiral Jim Selvin, shifted his stocky torso about to ease his discomfort. Battle-flinty eyes cast a quick baleful glance at his colleagues and turned to face the President. Thin lips, slashed across his rough-hewn face, twisted as he spoke.

"There's little to add to what we had an hour ago," he said. "Two good pilots dead; two impossible-to-replace patrollers destroyed."

Rubbing his chin vigorously, he grated, "We confirmed that the bandit beamer drew back into an underground tunnel that cuts into an ice gorge south of Coldfield. Their weapons' cache is even now being approached by unidentified tugs. No doubt that they're Narval's thugs and they're going to clamp a tow beam on the stores and haul them off to some subsurface storage or assembly shop. Once the weapons are assembled, installed and calibrated we could be on the receiving end of more nastiness."

Leaning forward over the table, he looked directly at the President. His hand transformed into a fist, and he pounded the table in cadence with his words.

"Mr. President," he said, "the real hell of it is we can't stop them, and we've got no one to blame but ourselves. It's downright unrealistic to keep our self-defense forces in the Special Zone so far below what's needed to protect our vital interests."

"What do you suggest, Jim," the President shrugged, "break our treaties with the Outer Region? What'll that get us?"

Jim looked directly into the President's eyes. "But they're the ones violating the treaties," he growled. "If we've ever needed irrefutable evidence, we've just had it rammed down our throats. We'd better get off our duffs and do something."

Allen Dynal, Minister for Intelligence, nodded in agreement, but did not speak. His turn was coming.

Selvin leaned back, turned his head to scowl at the view tank. Together, they contemplated the forming scene.

The Admiral's outburst had given subject matter guidance to the computer. The display shifted to the Planet Pluto Special Zone. Two tiny red lights flashed rapidly at the coordinates where the attacks had occurred. A steady blue light tracked the hijacked stores.

Selvin continued. "The entire sector from which this attack was launched is honeycombed with utility passages and subsurface supply and maintenance shops," he said. "They date back to when our earliest construction cadres went in. The subsurface should have been returned to its original state when we had no further use for the tunnels and galleries. We did start to collapse the ice walls and overheads; obviously, we didn't get very far."

Selvin sighed, heavily.

"Understandable," he went on. "Hundreds of junctions and cutouts were dug to serve one-time needs. They were never mapped. The same can be said for subsurface technical facilities. No question that many are still usable."

The view tank's image blurred, then cleared to show a broad expanse of Pluto's barren surface out to the planet's horizon. A white, steady glow identified Coldfield, the surrounding red and blue lines identified scores of subsurface passageways and rutted trails that curved away from the domed city in all directions.

"There's no doubt that the underground passages and caverns are being used by Narval as maintenance and operations hangars for his fleet," Selvin said returning his eyes to Camari. "Many have enough room to accommodate nuclear energy capsules, ship and equipment repair shops, and catapult launchers. Pseudo-gravity enhancers during construction stabilized the floors. Foundations are secured deep in the frozen surfaces, and bonded well enough, so that even under the planet's low density, they'll take the weight of battle wagons."

The silence hung heavily as Selvin glared at the view tank. His voice rasped. "They must have installed heavy screens in the overheads. Many of our penetration readings are dim, even with our most advanced sensors."

"That's all I have for now, Mr. President," he said, leaning back. Absently, his stubby fingers drummed the tabletop. He caught himself and glanced about guiltily as he drew his hands back to the edge of the table.

Camari's eyes moved on to a somber-faced ancient who gravely returned his stare. "Let's hear the intelligence review, Allen," the President said.

The Minister for Intelligence placed his clasped hands before him on the table and spoke. His voice was hoarse, low and intense, and his eyes moved from the President to Jim Selvin, who faced him grimly.

The view tank flickered, clouded and cleared to an overview of the Outer Region. The scale reduced planets, satellites, and stations to the colored pinpoints of light with which they all were long familiar. The computer adjusted to focus on a magnified Plutonian sector. The Uranus and Neptune orbits, although contained within the tank displays, were cut out by the compression. The Slingshot Construction Site rode the rim.

"Updating, the latest reports of military construction, commitments and political realignments among the Outer Nations are ominous," Allen said. "They're pledging themselves to each other through mutual assistance pacts and are building military spacecraft, weapons and support systems to back up their agreements."

Pointing thoughtfully with his right forefinger at his left palm, Allen updated the military assets of each opposing nation, and correlated its potential capabilities to economic resources over the coming decades and centuries until Slingshot reduced the solar system's deficits. He wove into his analysis the effects of orbital dynamics on normal and spunnel transit times from each Inner and Outer Region point-of-origin to the Slingshot work sites. He moved on to the status of weapons research and development, and identified the locations of the Outer Region's weapons manufacturing sites and military training facilities.

"The long-term defense of Slingshot through purely military means," he added, following a deep breath, "especially in protecting our routes and the Log Depot, is, as Jim stated, not possible given the prevailing circumstances. The so-called members of the Independent Nations of the Outer Region are expanding their field of operations, and they get generous support from satellite collectives and individual sympathizers throughout the region.

"Our intelligence sources," Allen concluded, "report that many supporters of Plutonian objectives are, themselves, descendants of the insurrectionists that fomented the dissolution of our first interplanetary union. Now, it seems, their intent is to destroy Slingshot, and us as well."

Allen Dynal and Jim Selvin glanced at each other; they were not in disagreement.

Camari broke the hush that followed Dynal's words.

"We are well into an armed confrontation," he said. "Nevertheless, whatever actions we take must minimize destruction to life and property, require no diversions from resources allocated to Slingshot, and in no way restrict Slingshot's construction and launch schedules."

Turning his head slightly, he nodded at the last of his three advisors. Chan Dahl, Minister of Diplomatic Protocols, laid his massive forearms on the table, palms down. His abrasive voice matched his heavy features and rotund body. He spoke rapidly in summary fashion: offering little that was new, Chan passed quickly over the diplomatic chasm that had formed between the UIPS and the Outer Region after the dissolution of the first United Planetary System. He summarized the complex alliances that had evolved among the independent governments beyond the Asteroids following the secession, and moved on quickly to the initiatives of his Ministry to reconcile inter-regional differences.

"The issue of the transit fee is critical," he said. "Each Outer Region nation has expressed vehement impatience to get on with its toll tax on the UIPS for each transport or other vessel that enters space contiguous to their planetary and satellite orbits. They insist that such space is legally within their natural boundaries, and that by merely passing through, we trespass. Restitution, they claim, is in order.

"Negotiations remain in limbo. The impasse will, quite likely, remain for some time. Our position is unchanged: the fees that they demand are without justification, an extortion to which we cannot submit."

Throughout the discussions, the Strategic Concepts Computer flashed a continuing display. As each topic was opened for discussion the view tank portrayed the corresponding regions, sectors, planets or satellites, shifting from one to the other as needed to clarify points under discussion or accompany the exploration for alternatives. The lower section of the tank registered the computer's quantification of speculations by the President's advisors, and their probabilities toward realization.

Finally, President Camari raised his hand. He pressed a softly glowing disk on the table. The view tank cleared. Resting his chin in the palm of one hand, Camari gently rubbed his temple with the fingertips of the other.

"Instructions to Strategic Concepts Computer," he began. "Summarize the facts adverse to our cause and our options for dealing with each. Arrange and rate the options according to their probabilities for results favorable to the UIPS, and separately, favorable to the interests of the Outer Region's Nations. Consider UIPS limitations in nonrenewable metals, minerals and other vital reserves until Slingshot begins to produce. Take the options into account and assume that Slingshot will succeed on schedule and will generate sufficient refined matter over time to meet the needs of both Regions.

"Project each option's draw down on resources committed to Slingshot, and estimate their impact on schedules. We may need to gamble here. Crank in the latest estimates on the years it will take for the Extractor to reach Alpha Centauri, get organized around the job, go online, and begin to produce. Compute out to the time that we will have rebuilt stockpiles within the Solar System."

Leaning slowly back into his chair as he spoke, Camari lowered his hands into his lap. His eyes moved from one advisor to the other. They returned his gaze, the bleakness in their eyes matching his own. "Try different combinations within the options and rate them," he continued. "Examine our treaties with the other powers and status of current negotiations and pending proposals. Show how each option, which has statistical probability for success up to exponent three can adversely affect those treaties or negotiations."

Camari drew a deep breath. "We need to take a fresh look at where we are. We've also got to avoid political irritations that may exacerbate the situation further. On the other hand, revisions to treaties and to our positions at the negotiating tables may be essential. Slingshot may solve our disagreements, but we cannot wait.

"Review our readiness and activation sequences consistent with our Quick Reaction Capability to deal with contingencies in the Slingshot Special Zone. Work up details on what needs to be done and by whom to upgrade our QRC initiatives for each contingency that I keyed in as probable. Show costs in still accessible resources separately and integrate results with relevant commitments and schedules. Draft implementation plans and execution directives to commit resources. Update constantly, but keep all implementation directives on 'hold' until I direct otherwise.

"We meet again in two hours," Camari, said, rising from his chair. "Computer: be ready to give a presentation on each option and its variations within the parameters I specified and which surface through your analyses. Double-check resource requirements and schedules, and tactical options and their possible effects on UIPS forces and assets in the Special Zone. Maintain current. When I select the course of action and authenticate them with the Presidential Implementation Designators, release directives to implement the decisions. Monitor and report. This completes my instructions to Computer."

The President turned toward the door from which he had entered. Pausing, he glanced back at the Minister of Intelligence.

"Allen," he said, "give me a rundown, within the hour, on our intelligence assets throughout the Outer Region. I am especially interested in your ability to intensify earliest possible infiltration and disruption throughout Narval's domain."

The door slid shut as he passed through. The wall panel across the view tank cavity lowered as the advisors departed.

The Strategic Concepts Computer presented visual displays accompanied by a gently modulated audio. The analysis was incisive, the coverage comprehensive. At its conclusion, the President scanned the faces of his Ministers and the Commander of the Space Forces.

"Comments?"

Scores of questions probed and tested the computer's logic and conclusions. Questions became observations, which, following discussion, became revisions that, were instantly extended to corollaries. Often, objectives and programs were adjusted. Finally, it was done — for the time being.

Rising from his seat, the President's eyes took in his grim advisors. Speaking softly, he passed decisions on several recommendations to his Ministers, Admiral Selvin, and into the Computer. Done, they sat silently for several moments, weighing the decisions' potential effects.

Rising and making his way toward the doorway,
Camari motioned to the Minister of Intelligence.
"I've read your report on our assets in the Outer
Region, Allen. I have a special task for your
Ministry."

He motioned the Minister for Intelligence to join him. They passed through and the door closed silently.

Chapter THREE

The Watch Commander drew a hand weapon from the rack, adjusted the power to low stun, and checked the safety. He slipped the sidearm into the sheath at his waist and scanned the monitors displaying his areas of jurisdiction.

The agri-ecol bays and industrial shops of the Guardian Station were orderly and busy. The officer's fingers ranged the console's keys. Aud-viz transmissions from passageways, wardrooms, and work and recreation areas slipped across the screens in rapid succession. Inmates and guards moved about, operated equipment, or worked at their benches, each, in his or her own way, putting in their time on the station's business.

A keystroke brought up the eight people boarding the Station through the lower air lock. Two were station guards, their weapons sheathed but retainer clips disengaged for instant withdrawal.

A slight adjustment brought into sharp focus the closed features of the three men and three women in dun-colored coveralls, under escort. He studied their faces for a moment and turned away. The bank of screens shut down as he stepped across the doorway of the cubicle that served him as both command post and sleeping quarters. He strode briskly toward a hatch at the far end of the passageway.

The lead guard, who had appeared a moment before on the screen, stepped off the ladder leading from the lower level and glided forward in the light pseudo-gravity followed by the six prisoners he had escorted from the transport. The prisoners, without constraints, walked silently. All had their hair trimmed uniformly close to their heads. The men's faces were as hairless as the faces of the women.

The second guard brought up the rear.

The forward guard came abreast the Watch Commander, stopped, barked a command to halt, and turned to face his charges. They knotted forward, not anticipating the order, separated and spaced themselves.

"OK, inmates," the guard grinned, "up against the bulkhead, please. Relax. You're gonna get the official greeting to this paradise of the outback."

Swinging about, he tossed a perfunctory salute in the officer's direction. At ease against the opposite bulkhead, he watched benignly as his charges shuffled about and lined up in no particular order. The guard at the other end stood astride the passageway in a casual stance.

The Watch Commander cleared his throat with a slight cough to focus their attention.

"I'm Lieutenant Malcolm," he said. "I run the Reception Center on this station. You may or may not know where you are; let's be certain that you do."

The six faces stared at him. One of the men in the lineup, third from the head, shifted his gaze from the officer to the guards and back again. A bit above medium height, ropy necked and thick-shouldered he gave the impression of a male at ease, confident but wary. Below his gray-black bristle of close-cropped hair and space-bleached brows his deep-set green eyes moved on to calmly scan the deck, bulkheads and corridor. He returned eyes to the officer and the guards. He had the air of a leader.

The officer drew a deep breath and continued. "The manifest of the transport from which you just disembarked listed you as 'cargo' transferred to this station from the temporary holding jails of Earth, Luna or Mars, or wherever you were being held. Don't let being recorded as 'cargo' bother you. Official visitors and guests are passengers, prisoners are cargo. If the transport's brigs were cramped, that's the name of the game; they're not built for comfort. Each of you did get a separate cell on board, I understand. In that respect, at least, you all got better than routine treatment."

The last remark raised sardonic eyebrows on two faces in the line. The rest remained impassive.

Malcolm paused, then continued.

"Be prepared to be here for a while. You know your commitment period. Whatever happens to you here depends on your attitude and your compliance with orders, and on decisions by those conducting your rehabilitation."

Pacing the line he stopped before each prisoner and stared at him or her from under bushy black eyebrows. Relaxed against the wall, or tense and erect, they returned his gaze. Inspection completed, he nodded at the guard astride the passageway and turned back to address the line.

"You are inmates in the Social Rehabilitation Center of Guardian Station 15, about five million kay outbound from the Asteroid Belt's rim, or what was the Belt before the space-miners got through with it. This station was the mining operations center for this sector.

"Our internal security is good. We've had no attempts at breakout in a dozen years. In the attempt that was made before then, the inmate didn't clear the sector. When it was over, I might add, he was a bit the worse for the experience."

Malcolm paused to let his words sink in.

"This prison," he continued, "is where the rehab system confines its high-risk and special treatment prisoners. Inmates include persons convicted of piracy of spacecraft, smuggling controlled minerals and other substances, theft of government and important private properties, hijacking, espionage, armed robbery, gun-running to insurgents and terrorists in the Outer Region, and murder. That's the short list."

The prisoner's faces remained expressionless.

"Bear in mind…" the Lieutenant reached the end of the line and reversed direction, "that although the Guardian Stations are along the border between the Inner and Outer Regions, we're far from isolated. For example, this station's present orbital coordinates accommodate Inner Region traffic to the Planet Pluto Special Zone through both normal space and spunnel express.

"Escorted Inner Region convoys regularly pass through this sector on their way to the Slingshot construction site. They include high-mass-loaded container ships, construction rigs under tow and objects too large for the spunnel are routed through this sector when we're lined up.

"Sometimes they stop to pick up and discharge passengers and cargo, or technicians to service our specialized posts along the way and at destination. We may have a half-dozen or so spacecraft alongside at any one time, just doing their jobs. When the moored ships are perceived as crowded, inmates dream of stowing away to somewhere else. That's no more than a dream; don't underestimate our surveillance systems. You've been warned."

He pointed at one prisoner, then another in a jabbing gesture.

"Our job is custodianship of those who can't adjust to the realities of our society, and rehabilitation and training of those who can be helped, eventually, to return to the outside world. There are other options for inmates who have special attributes. You will learn more of those in time."

Pausing, he scratched at his jaw.

"You are sojourners among us, and transient," he closed. "We will not abuse you; on the other hand, we will not coddle you. We tell all new inmates, as I'm now telling you: cooperate, and you'll find your stay tolerable, resist, and take the consequences."

A stern, hard stare, a shrug and his features relaxed.

"OK, that's the official greeting for all newcomers. I know you've all had a long, boring trip on a beat-up transport. I expect you'll want to unwind a bit."

He glanced at the forward guard, back against the bulkhead, and turned back to the prisoners.

"First, we'll get you into some decent quarters, and let you clean up and rest. Get to know each other; you'll be together for a long time.

"The guards will escort you to your core compartment. Normally, you would have started orientation and psy-phys testing immediately. Your schedule is different. Your first orientation lecture will be in two hours. Sergeant Jenkins," he motioned the lead guard forward, "will escort you to and from orientation. Don't play games with him; he knows them all."

"All yours, Jenks," he said. "Move 'em out."

Jenkins came forward, pointed to a hatch further along the passageway.

"Follow me."

Lieutenant Malcolm stepped aside. He watched the line move past silently and climb the companionway out of sight. None looked back.

Lining up in loose formation at the head of the companionway and responding to Jenkins signal the prisoners started along a passageway. The other guard brought up the rear.

They crossed spidery overpasses that spanned busy workshops and agriculture bays under cultivation. People and service robots moved about; the new prisoners drew few glances.

Jenkins drew them to a halt in a wide corridor. Ahead was a shimmering force field. He murmured words and placed the palm of his hand on a dull composite plate embedded in the wall. The force field faded to a haze. They passed through, and the haze resumed its shimmer behind them.

A portal came into view up ahead.

Jenkins motioned toward it and stepped aside as the prisoners passed him and on through the opening. The guards did not follow.

Of a sudden minus their escorts, the inmates clustered inside the entry and stared about.

The compartment was generous by space habitat standards. Well-lighted, it stretched ten meters from wall to opposite wall. Parallel in the center of the room a double line of four gray tables stood fused to the deck, each with benches on each long side, similarly immobilized. Evenly spaced along the wall were curtained sleep-privacy enclosures. Behind partitions on opposite sides of the compartment were entries to two standard wash-lavs. The furnishings were functional and clean.

One after the other, the prisoners drifted off to inspect the enclosures. All were back in less than a minute; they silently kept distance from each other.

The inmate who had so carefully examined the corridor while Malcolm talked, leaned against one of the tables and crossed his arms. He repeated his scan of the compartment, but this time one sector at a time, turning to take it all in yet pass over each cell-mate that entered his field of vision. His movements gave the group a focus; it was easier than to just stare at the walls and the austere furnishings.

"I don't get this," the table-leaner locked arms across his chest as he spoke with a puzzled expression on his face. His voice was low, flat yet courteous. "We may as well get the formalities out of the way. Who are we? Names will do for starters. I'm Brad."

Faces relaxed a mite. One of the women sat on a bench. The ice may have cracked, but the silence held. Brad had their attention.

Seconds passed.

"Hodak."

The word welled up as a growl, low and rumbling from a squat, muscular man. His deeply embedded eyes circled the room from under a boulder-brow that bridged the space beneath his bald pate to blend with the stub nose, wide mouth and crinkled skin of a seemingly amiable face.

"I'm Zolan," said the third male. He was of medium height, slight of build, waxy features and a high brow with the pallid complexion of a spacer. As alert and tense as a coiled spring, Zolan leaned against a bulkhead, eyes moving rapidly from Brad to Hodak to the walls to fix on an opposite bulkhead.

"That takes care of the men." A woman's voice, melodious, dulcet. "I'm Adari."

Sturdy, tightly curled hair and chocolate-toned skin. Her soft, rounded features were dimpled, cheerful, animated. Standing near a sleep enclosure, her grin was infectious. She brought long-absent grins, twinkles and nods from the others.

Repeating her name slowly, she smiled invitingly at the petite woman seated on a nearby bench.

"My, aren't we cautious," the little one said as she looked up and returned Adari's grin. "I am Kumiko," she shifted her eyes to take in the others, "and I regret to say that I am not particularly pleased to be among you." She paused, looked down. "Nothing personal, mind you, it's just that I did have other hopes."

Eyes shifted to the last of the group. Tall and slender, olive-skinned, she paced the narrow space between the wall and the cell's central section. Her turn, no longer to be put off.

"Myra," she said flatly.

The silence closed back in.

Chapter FOUR

The meeting hall was roughly triangular, the rows of form-fit seats molded into the deck which sloped downward toward a slightly raised platform jammed into a corner. Alongside the platform a meter-wide view tank rose from the deck to merge with the overhead. A single cable snaked from the view tank's base and disappeared into the nearby bulkhead.

The six inmates entered, milled about, silent, their features without expressions. In their own time, they each took seats, several empties apart. The first three rows remained vacant.

Hodak broke the silence. "The Blue Plate Special the Looie gave didn't sound right," he growled. "I want to know more about what he was gettin' at with that crack about our schedule 'being different'."

Adari turned, eyebrows raised, to stare at him thoughtfully. She nodded slowly and turned back to join the others to focus on a figure perched on a high stool beside the view tank.

He looked tall, despite his being seated. A slate-gray uniform covered him from neck to ankles; his feet shod in high-top deck slippers that matched the shade of his garment. He wore no insignia. Long, crowded features and tawny space-worn skin formed a face of planes and angles. His hairless head and long hands looked like they might have been hacked from a block of Mercurian tuscanite and left to weather for a few million years in the sun's glare.

The hall quieted. Satisfied that he had their attention, the man stood. The mere suggestion of height, seated, did not do him justice. He unfolded like an articulated, mechanical crane. Fully extended, his towering frame rose more than two meters from heels to naked, gleaming scalp.

His first words took Hodak's challenge.

"You will know, Hodak." His voice was soft, and carried the gravity of authority.

His eyes moved from one to the other.

"What I say here applies to all of you," he said. "I will not answer all of your questions, but you will be told all you need to know at this time."

He stepped down toward them from the dais, halting inside the curve of the first row of seats.

"I am Ram Xindral," he said, "your orientation lecturer, your trainer and, should you need one, your counselor. I am also your Control. Take specific note of the term 'control'. It has only one meaning: you are in a prison, but from here on take no orders from prison staff. You take your orders only from me; I am not 'prison' staff."

"What the hell!"

Hodak again, bouncing up, down, up again. Adari, her mouth open in surprise and alarm, also stood, paused, and moved to stand beside Hodak. Zolan remained seated, his hooded eyes on Xindral. Kumiko shifted position slightly and stared vacantly at the deck. Myra remained motionless, her face also closed. Brad, brows drawn into a frown, crossed his arms, waiting.

"Hah! This sure as hell isn't the standard orientation lecture for new inmates." Adari's jeering laugh burst from her in a sardonic cascade.

"No, Adari, it isn't," Ram said with a smile, "but hear me out."

The hall was suddenly charged with tension and wariness. Hodak remained on his feet, bent forward, hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him, challenge in his eyes.

Xindral clasped his hands behind his back. The gesture tightened his frame and seemed to increase his height. He faced away from them, strode back to stand beside the view tank and turned. Hodak grunted, sat, muttered under his breath; Adari took the seat alongside, leaned in toward Hodak, listened to him mumble, and grinned, nudged and nodded.

"Details later," Xindral continued. "Let's get this first part over with. I'll talk. Cut in with questions if you must, and bitch if it helps; we'll get to know each other better. If you take off on a tangent, so be it. I'll go along, within limits. I didn't expect this to be a monologue, by far. It'll take a while, but you'll get the information I intend you to have."

An uneasy shifting about ensued. The prisoners weren't buying. Brad sensed the apprehension in the others that he felt in himself. Xindral's opening remarks along with his aura projected formidable power despite his slender frame.

"Before we continue," Xindral said, "know that you are not quartered in the penal section of the station. The usual new arrivals don't get this sort of attention. Furthermore, the lectures given to them are confined to station routines. Their processing includes a few tests that are evaluated for basic intelligence and skills. It helps the staff assign them to shops, rehab training, and eventually for return to the outside world. You're not that lucky."

Xindral's last words jolted Hodak back on to his feet.

"Look, whoever the hell you are," he rumbled, jabbing a stubby finger at Xindral, "let's cut out the crap about our luck. First the Looie, now you, puttin' on this mystery act with fancy hints that don't make sense. You said we're allowed to ask questions. OK, here's one: am I an inmate in this prison or not?"

"You are, and you aren't," Xindral shrugged. "That's my answer at this time. As we talk, the picture will clear."

Xindral's face flexed into a grin.

The animosity in the hall was palpable, exacerbated by Xindral's evasive response to a fair question. As Hodak grumbled his way back down into his seat the elongated figure drew a flat, palm-sized control from a sheath fastened to his belt and pressed an embedded key.

The view tank's haze cleared to the standard solar schematic. The scene faded, replaced by a ring of tiny multicolored lights: the Asteroid Belt.

"This display is tailored to the general run of inmates processed through orientation, just to give them an idea where they are. Their familiarity with deep space is often limited, so station lectures start with fundamentals. We'll pass on this."

Brad tensed at Xindral's choice of words, and sensed the others had been similarly alerted. He glanced sideways. His companions, as he, stared at one another as if seeing them for the first time. Were they of a kind?

Xindral continued as if he hadn't noticed.

"A footnote," he said. "The Belt's been cleared of almost all rocks and swarms, plus the big ones that we couldn't use for outposts. As you may recall from your school days, it wasn't easy hauling micro-spunnel terminals around the Belt and ramming rocks into the hoppers for transfer to meltdown and refining above Venus.

"In short, the big space sweeps of five to eight hundred years ago cleared away most of the residue in Belt orbits that had no beneficial purpose and were a hazard to traffic. The Belt was a good source for minerals — while it lasted."

He paused to key the instrument in his hand.

"That's done," he said. "What's left are only a few of the big asteroids, like Ceres. They serve both regions as Solar Spacetrack Centers, communications relays, search and rescue operations, space lanes debris collection teams, urgent care hospitals, and for spunnel gateways management."

As he spoke the ring of lights in the tank flickered. Another ring formed, evenly spaced rods, each glowing a contrasting color.

"The Guardian Stations," Xindral said, "have been in position for more than six centuries. Twenty stations; no more are planned."

The tank zoomed in on five of the twenty rods in a quarter segment of the full orbit; the rods expanded to form slowly rotating cylinders.

"The Guardians are apportioned among four generally equal sectors, any one of which serves the quadrant that it happens to transit at the time. Responsibilities and missions overlap, and are passed along from the station moving out of a quadrant to the one entering it along the common orbital path. Using standard and hyperspace omnidirectional surveillance, each station's primary job is to monitor its sector: inward toward the Sun, and outward to the rim and beyond as far as our technical capabilities extend. The service areas change constantly in keeping with the alignments and dynamics of planets and their satellites, traffic-lane management, neutralizing debris intrusions, and conventional and spunnel teleport maintenance."

Xindral folded himself back on to the high stool as he spoke.

"After the political separation of the Inner and Outer Regions these Guardian Stations reverted to us by the treaty. Formally, they serve only the Inner Region's jurisdictions. Informally, however, the stations cover the entire system; to do otherwise would bring about enormous disruptions and disasters in space traffic and communications.

"The Guardians' functions include standard and spunnel communications, disaster relief, search and rescue of distressed spacecraft, intercepting and diverting comets-of-hazard, meteors, debris and other threats to traffic in the space-ways that serve the Inner Region's space colonies needs. Often the Outer Region's folks help when their interests are involved; just as often they don't. It's one of the prices we pay for this political breach, and one of the most frustrating."

Zolan turned to aim a remark at Adari. She giggled and elbowed Hodak. He growled and twisted away. Kumiko's eyes lifted from the deck to lazily roam the blank overhead.

Myra's face openly played non-listener. Brad continued to observe Xindral closely, glancing occasionally at the tank.

Aware that he was losing his audience, Xindral paused and stood quietly for a moment.

"Do my words bore you?" He leaned forward to take them all in. His voice, still soft, nevertheless exposed a cutting edge.

Zolan looked at Xindral as he contemptuously gave the tank the back of his hand.

"Who're you trying to kid?" His challenge was cast low, tight. "I don't know about the rest of these folks. I haven't asked any of them about themselves, nor have they tried to check me out. But you wouldn't have brought us together without first investigating us for whatever your purpose might be. For example; you must know I'm a space communicator. So, frankly, your rambling on like this not only bores me, its phoniness is clear and insulting."

Hodak slapped his knee and laughed. He pointed at
Zolan, then wagged his finger at Ram.

"Comm isn't my beat," he said. Thumbing over his shoulder at Zolan, he added, "but what he said goes for me."

Xindral brushed the keys on the control and returned it to its case. The view tank faded as he fixed his eyes on Zolan.

"Yes, Zolan, I am familiar with your background." Shifting to Hodak, "Yours, too." His glance widened to include the others, "as I am with the backgrounds of you all."

In response, the prisoners silently glared defiance.

"Zolan's observation is correct and on point," Xindral said, ignoring their disdain. "We're not fooling one another. Simply stated, you have much in common. You are professional space men and space women, and highly qualified at that. Your skills and resourcefulness remain with you and I am aware of them."

Slouchers straightened. Hodak and Adari looked around and their faces broke into grins, which were returned. Tension remained, but subtly altered.

"A couple of points," said Xindral. "First, you are all from sunside of the Belt and you are not known, as far as my sources can determine, where I don't want you to be. Second, together, you represent a cross-section of space professions and experience vital to the success of an important and urgent task. What you are going to be asked to do will place your lives at risk. You will need to rely on each other, personally and professionally, under difficult circumstances."

Brad had enough.

"Now let's just wait a minute!"

Brad was on his feet, instantly joined by the others.

Xindral, head cocked slightly to one side, sat and listened.

"Zolan said it first," said Brad. "None of us speaks for the others, so what I say is for myself. Who are you to force me — us — into a life-risk situation?"

The words, tightened in long-suppressed rage, spewed forth.

"You just counted off a couple of 'points'." Brad raised his hand, index finger raised. "Now here's one for you. I'm here because I was convicted of a so-called offense against society. No way do I consider myself a criminal; furthermore, I don't know if these others," motioning in their direction, "consider themselves criminals or not. Again, I say, not my business. I'm here to serve a prison sentence, and that doesn't include doing odd jobs where my life goes on the line."

Brad and Xindral faced each other across tension-charged space. The momentary confrontation passed, Brad, obviously fed up with Xindral's evasions, crossed his arms across his chest and waited. The tall man studied him.

"Your point is well made," he said. "You have forced the issue forward, and your challenge must be answered before we go much further. Here are a few of the pieces. Think about them."

He stepped back on to the platform and took his seat.

"You were selected only after a searching investigation into your backgrounds," he said. "We considered your records, personalities, and your capabilities: phys and psy, professional skills, job performance, resiliency, whatever the task I assign to you will likely call for.

"You are now a UIPS task group, for want of a better designation. One of you will be appointed Commander. You will be given a job to do. You will depend on each other in most difficult circumstances: your records for reliability under stress were among the selection criteria. You were acceptable.

"As to your appointment, that was made by an authority outside this station, actually, outside the Correctional Service of which this penal institution is a part. From the time you were moved into the holding cells for transfer here, you came under the jurisdiction of a Ministry that is involved with the most vital interests of the UIPS. The specifics of your mission will be covered in our next session."

"The hell you say." Hodak bounced again. "You're still dangling us on a string. Lay the whole bit out. Now!"

Nods and grunts followed Hodak's demand.

"Very well," Xindral said, after a short pause. "Actually, there's no reason to delay your marching orders."

His voice flattened.

"By direction of the President of the United Inner
Planetary System you are appointed to the Strategic
Penetrations Detachment of the Ministry of
Intelligence. Your unit identifier is 'Sentinels'.
Your unit commander is Brad Curtin, present.

"Copies of your orders are in a secured file in the Ministry of Intelligence. A copy is temporarily posted in your core compartment. When you read it, note that all requests for release or reassignment are denied."

Xindral folded back into his normal, slightly bowed posture. His audience, frozen, stared at him blankly.

"That's it for now." Xindral ordered, the flatness gone. "Return to your compartment and report back here in an hour. Brad, please stand by."

Chapter FIVE

His jaws clamped tight, eyes glaring, Brad sensed his companions rise to their feet around him. Kumiko first, stood and wordlessly glided to the closed passage portal. Her back to the others, she waited for the panel to clear. Zolan, on his feet, mouth agape, stared at Xindral.

Adari, still seated, gawked in bewildered disbelief from Xindral to Brad to Hodak. Hodak glowered, gestured rudely and cursed furiously and loudly. Myra stood, silent behind an icy mask. Xindral, perched on his stool, arms in his lap, impassively observed their reactions.

The scene held for several seconds. Xindral broke the silence.

"Your formal orientation and training begins when you return. First I must speak with your Commander. Please excuse us."

He turned and touched a disk on the bulkhead. The entryway cleared and Jenkins appeared.

"Escort our friends back to their compartment,
Jenks. Commander Curtin will remain with me.
Return the group in an hour."

"Yes, sir."

Myra, Adari, Hodak and Zolan milled about for a moment, then joined Kumiko at the portal. Passing through, they spoke and gestured animatedly to each other. The portal clouded over.

Xindral hefted his stool forward, placed it alongside Brad, and folded his long frame onto it facing the view tank.

"Just so you know, Brad," he said gently, bridging the silence between them, "those of us who work in Strategic Penetrations carry no formal rank. If we did, yours would be the equivalent of a Lieutenant Commander in the United Inner Planetary System Space Force. Mine would be a notch or so above."

He shifted his frame about and bent a long leg to bring his foot up to the lower rung. His tone shifted into neutral. Cool.

"My friends call me Ram. OK?"

Brad nodded, eyeing him. Ram drew back a bit and contemplated the control in his grasp. After a moment he stroked the keys. A rainbow of colors swirled and drifted off, replaced by an ash-gray sphere. Planet Pluto spread across half the tank with its flat stretches of methane frost broken by low, jagged chasms, hillocks and craters. Charon and the Slingshot Logistics Depot hung off near the edge of the tank's flattened top.

Brad glanced at the scene, and back to Ram.

"Brad," Ram spoke slowly, quietly, "a trite expression, repeated all too often during our history, is 'humankind now faces its greatest crisis'. The statement has been declared so often across the ages that it's lost meaning, obviously because it changes in context and perception from one event, century or millennium to the next. I suppose those who said it, believed it. Nevertheless, even if the term 'crisis' never really applied in the past, it does in these times for humankind's destiny.

"The deficits in our nonrenewable assets, and the many other natural substances we depend on, if not resolved within the next few centuries, could force us back into caves, and I don't use that word 'figuratively'. Ceramics, composites, and other substitutes are fine as far as they go, but they do only a tiny part of the job.

"We'll soon be running short of substitutes for our substitutes. Building bigger and better colonies in space over the past thousand years or so has consumed far more of our resources than expected. Earth is almost barren and many space colonies in both regions can no longer meet existing needs fromtheir regions, let alone those of the future.

"In short, our dispersed civilizations must have access to sources for minerals and other industrial substances, not only now but in perpetuity, in order to survive and evolve. Our species isn't built to accept inactivity or slipping backward. If we don't move on to something new and challenging, then we'll drift into extinction. You've heard this all dozens of times; I won't dwell on it further."

Ram stood, paced, and turned his head to keep Brad in sight as he paced and reversed direction. Brad's eyes fixed on the view tank and stayed there. There was nothing new in Ram's words, so far.

"Slingshot schedules are in their most critical phase. We have a launch window for the Extractor. It's not much of a window. If we miss it, Slingshot fails. It's that simple. The launch cannot be aborted; there'll be no second chance. People across the system, by the millions, are committed to the schedule. You, and your crew now serve in that legion."

"What's going on here?" Brad cut in. "Are you telling me we've been pressed into this job with no choice of our own?"

His anger showing, Brad thumbed over his shoulder toward the entryway, then at his chest.

"Tell me, Ram," Brad demanded, "how did it happen that we six, three men and three women, are here at this time for this purpose?"

"We'll get to that in time." Ram said, "I've reviewed your trial record, but I'd like to hear it from you — straight. What happened?"

Brad stared at Ram for several seconds, obviously making up his mind. Finally, he shrugged, and contemplated his hands.

"Well, then you know I was Captain of a space freighter," he began. "My job was to transport high-mass mining equipment, ores and refined stuff between Mercury, Venus and Luna.

"When this mess happened, we were Luna-bound with a full load of worn out track-layers, rock-crushers, drill robots, filters and other tools in the forward and aft storage bays, and ingots well-secured in stress-certified compartments. The ship was at capacity, but within legal limits. Mass and balance had been certified by Space Traffic Control before they cleared us from Venus orbit. The ship was in order.

"We were only about twenty-million kay from the Luna Space Traffic Control Zone, but still in max drive. Plenty of time to kick-in vector and deceleration programs."

Brad paused, shifted position, rubbed his jaws, sighed deeply, glanced sideways at Xindral and, his voice tighter, continued.

"That's when that strung-out jock in a space-buggy took us on for a game of 'chicken'.

"The buggy was a single-seater, tiny, barely ten meters bow to stern, but the way she whipped around us, it was plain to my duty officer that she was charged by a micro deep space drive. My duty officer hit the alarm; I got to the bridge within ten seconds after the buggy's first pass.

"I checked our status and proximity-to-mass in vicinity; then my ship's scope analyses of the buggy's thrust and gyrations. She was obviously overpowered for mass, especially in the confined lanes plowed by slow freighters like mine.

"My three-hundred-meter freighter with all storage bays packed bulkhead to bulkhead with high mass, is barely maneuverable under the best of circumstances. Evasive action against some hot shot in a souped up space-buggy was out of the question.

"It got worse. Not only did the jock ignore my warnings; he lined up alongside my bridge and danced on his thrusters. He flipped from relative vertical to horizontal, then corkscrewed us lengthwise fore to aft and back. To add insult, he whirled his buggy on its tail like a damn dervish, right alongside where I stood on my bridge and then cut across my bow. That hotshot was one good pilot, I'll grant him that.

"After a minute or so of that, the buggy circled my ship, close. The pilot probably liked what he saw, because he surface-snaked us again bow to stern. That must have been boring; he peeled away, tore ahead a quarter-million kay, skewed around, and came straight at my bow, curdling space. When collision was just about unavoidable, he did an up and over. In doing that, he cut us much too close, snapped off a dozen masts, sensors and nav guides.

"The jock must have gone berserk; he took us on for full 'chicken'. He shot ahead about a million kay, flip-flopped, and came at us head-to-head, taunting us with his collision signals. Our computer showed him as boosting all the way."

Another long pause. Brad looked directly at Xindral.

"We collided, head on," he said. "That brightly colored, beautiful little flitter buried itself deep in our forward cargo bay. My rescue team went in, but we knew ahead of time what we'd find. It was there: chunks of metal, shards of bone, and scraps of flesh splattered on mining gear, rock-crushers, and other odd pieces of equipment.

"The Space Guard hearings were followed by a quick trial. The jock was the son of a politician, so here I am."

The Universe — or Nothing

Table Of Contents

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE