Phytosphere

Especially when so far you’ve given us nothing.”

“I’ve got the timetable right here, Ira. You can take a look for yourself.”

“But how do you expect to develop and implement an artificial gravitational field on such a gargantuan

scale when we have such minimal resources on the Moon? If you combined every singularity drive we have, you wouldn’t even reach one one-thousandth of the power you would need for something like this.

No offense, Gerry, but I think this meeting is adjourned.”

“I never said I was going to develop and implement an artificial gravitational field.”

“Then why are we here, and where is this going?”

“If you’ll let me discuss the physics of the thing…” He motioned at all his measurements.

Ira threw up his hands. “Be my guest. You’re the scientist.” He loaded the word with derision.

“Going back to what I was saying about the Moon—a million years ago it was a lot closer to Earth, and its gravitational pull was that much stronger.” He looked around at his audience—showgirls, movers and shakers, cannabis bar owners, small-time councilors, pimps, and prostitutes—and he knew they all had mothers and fathers, perhaps brothers and sisters, and even children. A great emotion swelled in his chest as he thought of Glenda, Hanna, and Jake. “I don’t need anything like a complex Tarsalan gravitational device. I just need simple physics. And simple physics tells me that we can save the Earth. It tells me that it’s our duty and responsibility to save our suffering fellow human beings on Earth. And as for the engineering miracles involved? They’re not miracles at all. The math is so perfectly juvenile that even a child can understand it.”

He leaned forward over the lectern. “I need a mass of sufficient size to act upon the Moon, a force that will push the Moon, in the short term, two thousand miles closer to the Earth. This repositioning of the Moon will exert the necessary gravitational force to destroy the phytosphere. To get that result, I require a planetoid-sized body roughly twelve miles across striking the Moon at approximately a hundred miles per second. This will degrade the Moon’s orbit the necessary distance, and thereby increase its gravitational pull enough to fracture and destroy the phytosphere.

He lifted his hands because he saw Ira rising with what looked like a million objections.

“Ira, please… stop.”

“What happens to the Moon when this planetoid-sized body strikes it at a hundred miles per second? I mean…Ger…why don’t you just hand out loaded revolvers and we can get it over with?”

“If the Moon had an atmosphere, Ira… if the Moon had oceans… but it doesn’t. It’s just a rock. Fire a bullet at a big rock and see what happens. Not much. Mitch and I have done the calculations. If a body this size were to hit the Earth, you’re right, it would be a planet killer. But not so on the Moon. The Moon is designed to take hits. It’s been taking hits nonstop for the last four billion years. A body this size strikes the Moon, and yes, I admit, it will hit the surface with a force of nineteen million megatons, create a peak-ring crater two hundred and twenty-five miles across and six miles deep, and generally shake up the Moon. But it won’t be a planet killer. Everybody will survive. And there’ll be minimal damage to the Moon’s infrastructure.”

“Why should we believe you?” asked Ira. “And how are you going to pull it off?”

Gerry turned to Mitch. “Mitch?”

Mitch nodded and got up. “Uh…Ira…it’s possible. And it’s feasible with the…the inventory AviOrbit has on hand. We take the FMC Transit Collective drives and we boom them—like a big log boom. We

take them out to the asteroid belt. We already have our…designated body. Gaspra, if you want to know, as it more or less coincides with our dimensional requirements. I’m really sorry, Ira, for going behind your back like this.”

“You’re not going to use the FMC Transit Collective drives.”

Mitch kept going, despite being cowed. “We boom these drives together and we take them out to the… asteroid belt. I know… I know… pretty wild… but, you know, I’ve gone over all the math… and actually I’ve had some of the telemetry guys… and we boom them to one of our freighters… we were thinking the Prometheus, because she’s just been freshly serviced and fueled, and she’s ready to go…”

Mitch continued to outline the whole scheme in a quavering voice: how they would fly the Prometheus to the asteroid Gaspra because Gaspra was ideally located in relation to the Moon at this point in its orbit; how they would then anchor the Prometheus to the “front” of the asteroid, then drill the five FMC

Transit Collective Drives into the body of the asteroid and lay in a collision course for the Moon; explained that the crew would consist of himself as engineering specialist, Gerry as science specialist, and Ian Hamilton as pilot; and how, at the last moment, as Gaspra came within striking distance, the crew would eject in a special survival pod.

“And what’s beautiful about the math is that it allows for a certain margin of error, especially in terms of our angle of descent, and in the way the strike zone doesn’t have to be a hundred percent accurate but just what Gerry is calling a generalized region of effectiveness… so, as Gerry says, the math is, well, juvenile.” He quickly added, “Don’t take that in any insulting way.”

Ian Hamilton got so fed up with Mitch’s apologetic tone that he bounded down the aisle of the H. G. Wells Ballroom and leaped to the platform in the Moon’s weak gravity.

“Goddamn it, Ira, you’re fired. You’re fired, you’re fired, you’re fired. We’re going to take those damn FMC drives, we’re going to bolt them into Gaspra, and we’re going to ram Gaspra down the Moon’s goddamn throat.” He spoke with the fervency of a man who was desperately trying to redeem himself, who was trying to make up for all the bad things he had done in his life. “And the three of us up here are the only ones who have guts enough to do it. I mean…where are your balls? Do you really want to go for this Tarsalan deal? You really want to trust those fatheads after what they did to the Earth? Tell ’em, Ger. Tell ’em that they’re nothing but a bunch of goddamn liars.”

Gerry stared at the crowd of Lunarians. Fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers, wives, daughters, children— every one of them. “We could indeed take the Tarsalan deal,” he began. “The Tarsalans could rig the Moon so that it would indeed become a self-sustaining outpost for the next thousand years. But make no mistake. It would be their outpost, not ours. And in forty years a backup force from their homeworld would arrive, and they would use a new gravitational device to dismantle the shroud, and they would then, at last, immigrate to Earth, just like they’ve always wanted. Only there would be no human survivors left down there anymore, and Earth would be theirs for the taking. Is that what you want? For the Tarsalans to come in and take over? Kafis isn’t dumb. He’s got two brains. He has a million years of technological culture behind him. That’s why I didn’t invite him to this meeting. That’s why I had Ian spray the whole room for bugs. Because Kafis knows it’s possible. He realizes there’s a way we can save ourselves. But is he letting on?”

He stopped, once again thinking of his wife and kids.

“Please, I’m asking you… we’ve got this chance. We can do it. Mitch and I have gone over the mission specs again and again. It will work. Do we tie our destiny forever with the Tarsalans? Do we let them control us? Or do we take control of our own fate? There are those of you out there who I know have people on Earth.” He ventured to his own thoughts of a moment ago. “You have fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers, wives, and daughters. You have husbands. Are you just going to abandon them? Are we going to desert our brothers and sisters on Earth? Do you want that on your conscience? I know I don’t. So let’s do what Ian says. Let’s take this chance, and do what’s right. Not what’s safest for ourselves, but what’s right and decent for all of humankind.”

32

Neil, sitting next to the helicopter door, banged his head as the aircraft shifted suddenly—and from that moment, his left contact lens wouldn’t work, no matter how many times he tapped his left temple.

In the wake of his great failure, nothing seemed to make sense anymore. His life became little more than a series of disconnects, and it became a lot worse when Lenny swerved to avoid incoming fire.

Morgan cried the whole way. Lenny kept glancing at her, as if he wished she’d shut up. And while the two