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4

JOHNSON SPACE CENTER





“But I’m a NASA employee, Mr. Thrasher—”

“Art. Call me Art.”

Jessie Margulis looked distinctly uncomfortable. Thrasher had driven out to the NASA center specifically to meet the engineer, but Margulis had refused to bring him inside, to where the offices and laboratories were. They sat next to each other in the spacious visitors’ center reception area.

Margulis hunched close to Thrasher, his eyes worriedly following every salesman and bureaucrat and engineer that paraded past. He even glanced cautiously every few seconds at the four receptionists sitting behind the big curving desk in the center of the room. Christ, Thrasher thought, he acts like we’re planning a bank heist.

Thrasher’s chief engineer, Vince Egan, had identified Margulis as one of NASA’s top engineers, the man who headed Johnson Space Center’s advanced planning department.

“I’m a government employee,” Margulis repeated. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

“Why not?” Thrasher countered, “I’m a citizen and a taxpayer; that makes me your boss, kind of.” Then, with a grin, he added, “It’s not like we’re plotting to blow up the place.”

Margulis winced. He’s sweating, Thrasher noticed. They air-condition this barn cold enough to put icicles on your cojones and he’s sweating.

Thrasher went on, “We’re just having a friendly little chat about what a manned spacecraft—”

“Crewed,” Margulis corrected.

“Crude?”

“Cre-wed.” The engineer emphasized the second syllable. “We don’t say ‘manned.’ It’s not politically correct.”

Thrasher nodded. “I gotcha. And besides, we’ll have women among the crew for the Mars mission.”

Margulis winced again at the word “Mars.” He was a bland-faced man in his forties: receding hairline, little fuzz of a goatee hiding a weak chin, a pot belly, shirt pocket stuffed with pens. Put him in a party with six hundred guests and ask any one of ‘em to find the engineer, they’d go straight to him, Thrasher thought.

Still, the headhunters claimed he was a brilliant engineer. And more than that, he was a leader among engineers. The rest of them respected him.

But Margulis was saying, “NASA has been directed to shelve its plans for a crewed Mars mission. There’s no money in the budget for it.”

“And all the work you’ve done on the project has been scrapped,” said Thrasher.

“Mothballed,” Margulis corrected. Thrasher thought he detected some resentment there.

“So what are you working on now?”

The engineer tracked with his eyes an older man in his shirtsleeves and a NASA employee’s badge dangling from a chain around his neck. The guy glared disapprovingly at Margulis as he walked past.

“What are you working on now?” Thrasher repeated. “Is it a secret?”

“No, we don’t work on classified projects. We’re completely open.”

“So what’re you doing now?”

Margulis shrugged. “Robotic planetary probes, mostly. Another mission to Europa. Conceptual studies of a probe to land on Titan.”

“That’s a moon of Saturn, right?”

“Right.”

“And manned . . . I mean, crewed missions?”

“Nothing.”

Brightening, Thrasher said, “Well, I’ve got a crewed mission for you to work on. Mars.”

“I can’t discuss that with you,” Margulis hissed, almost pleading. “I’m a NASA employee.”

“You’re not allowed to consult with a private citizen?”

“No. That’d be a conflict of interest, in the government’s eyes.”

“Then quit the goddamned government and come to work for me. I’ll double whatever you’re making now.”

Margulis’ mouth popped open, but no words came out.

“I want you to head my Mars project.”

“I . . . In another couple of years I’ll have put in my twenty. I’ve got a pension coming, and there’s the health-care insurance . . .”

“I’ll equal or better it.”

“Could you wait two years?”

“No.”

Margulis was clearly torn. Tempted.

Thrasher coaxed, “You’ll be head of the project, free to run it any way you like.”

The engineer blinked twice, then asked, “Suppose I want to use a nuclear propulsion system.”

“Nuclear?”

“A nuclear rocket would be a helluva lot better than chemical rockets. More efficient, capable of moving a much bigger payload. But NASA’s stopped all work on nukes. Too much anti-nuke pressure.”

Thrasher saw an opening. With a shrug, he said, “You’re the tech leader. If you think nuclear is the way to go, we’ll go nuclear.”

“There’ll be a lot of opposition,” Margulis warned.

“I’ll take care of the opposition. You do the engineering.”

For a long moment Margulis said nothing. Then, “The problem is . . . Art, your project might go belly-up. You might not get the funding you need. Or the anti-nuke people will stop you. Or the money might run out. With the government, I’ve got a steady job. I’ve got security. I have a wife and three kids to think about.”

“Jessie, I will personally fund a pension and health care insurance plan for you. Fully fund them both. Put the money into a separate account, where it’ll be safe.”

“I . . .”

“I want you Jessie. You’re the best man to run this project, everyone I’ve talked with agrees on that. I need you.”

“I’d have to quit NASA. Leave all my benefits.”

“Can’t you take a leave of absence? For a year, say? Then, if my project doesn’t work out, you can come back to NASA and no harm’s been done.”

“Maybe . . .”

“You think about it, pal.” Thrasher popped to his feet. Margulis remained seated, his expression somewhere between thoughtful and frightened.

At last he got slowly to his feet, too.

“I will think about it, Mr. Thrasher.”

“Art.”

“Art.”

“Double your salary. Full pension and health insurance.” Thrasher started to turn toward the door, hesitated, and turned back to Margulis.

“Oh, I almost forgot the most important point of all.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll be working on a mission to Mars, by damn. A nuclear-propelled crewed mission to Mars. You’ll never get to do that as an employee of the goddamned government.”




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