Hogan, James P - Craddle of Saturn

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Title: Cradle of Saturn
Author: James P. Hogan
PROLOGUE
Times had always been plentiful. Since the beginning of the age when their ancestors first walked
in the world, the People had lived in harmony with the spirits and the elements. Their language
had no words for war or want, famine or drought. The forests were vast, the plains fertile. Fair
winds brought rain from warm oceans. All of life flourished in abundance.
* * *
No memory had been handed down of where the People came from.
Some taught that they were born of Neveya, who ruled the skies during the times of lesser light
when the smaller but brighter Sun was absent, and at the end of mortal life they would return to
her across the Golden Sea in which the world floated. They learned to farm the lands and tame
animals; to study the ways of wood, and stone, and metals; to admire and create music, likenesses,
and things of beauty. Their sages pondered over the mysteries of mind and the senses, life and
motion, of number and the nature of things. Communities grew under social imperatives and
marketplaces for ideas, and became centers of government and commerce.
* * *
Iryon stood near the mouth of a broad river, between arms of green hills rising to distant
mountains. It was not the largest of cities, but its buildings had been shaped and ornamented with
a care that made the whole as much an expression of art as the carved gates and gilded window
traceries, or the marble reliefs surrounding the central square. At the summit of one of the five
hills on which Iryon was built stood the Astral Temple, where priests of Neveya charted the cycles
of the heavens.
Each day began with the world looking out across the immensity of the celestial Ocean that
extended away to Neveya's orb, dividing it equally like the plane of a blade halving a water-fruit
so that only the upper hemisphere of Neveya was visible. Then the Ocean would rise, tilting and
narrowing as it did so until it became an edge crossing past the world to reveal briefly all of
Neveya's countenance; from there, now above, it broadened again to expand its underside, at the
same time obscuring Neveya's upper part to reach its half-day low, after which it would fall and
cross back again. This cycle repeated 5,623 times in the year that the stars took to turn through
their constellations.
The proportions of light and dark making up the days changed according to whether the Sun was
visible as well as Neveya, and in what situation—which varied with the seasons. The "blue hours"
came when the Sun shone from the far side of Neveya, transforming its normally orange glow into a
black shadow cast across the Golden Ocean. At certain times in the course of the year, as the
Ocean crossed past the world during the blue hours, the Sun would vanish behind Neveya completely,
turning day abruptly into darkest night. These were the times when the other worlds that moved
about Neveya revealed themselves in their full glories of form and color. They were known as the
days of "Dark Crossings." Multitudes would come from afar to Iryon to attend the rites and
ceremonies that took place on these occasions.
* * *
The pyramid was built such that, from the Eye Stone at the center of the semicircle of astronomers
and priests where the Speaker of Neveya stood, the orb was seen as if supported on its apex like a
cloud grazing a mountain. Since Neveya never changed her position in the sky, the disk remained
balanced in that manner always, varying only from yellow jewel through shrinking face to waning
crescent as the Sun rode its distant course about both her and the world, and the celestial Ocean
rose and dipped through its daily cycle. As the moment of the Dark Crossing approached, she
glowered at the world with full face, black and featureless, fading into the glare as the Sun
touched her shoulder.
The crowds assembled on the slopes were hushed as the Speaker intoned the Verses of Passage.
Around the temple and across the city below, torches had been lit in readiness for the Darkness.
At the top of the pyramid, Neveya reappeared suddenly out of the glare as a black arc sliding
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across the Sun, her shadow lying now like a black ray cut out of the Ocean, moment by moment
advancing closer. When it fell across the world, connecting it to Neveya like a bridge spanning
the Ocean, then, it was taught, the souls whose time had come to return would depart on their
journey.
A murmuring of awe and wonder, more a wind than a sound, stirred through the crowd as the sky
darkened. The astronomers readied their instruments and recording tablets, while the Speaker
turned, opening his robed arms wide to greet the spectacle. For an instant Neveya's outline flared
into a thin curve of light as if the extinguishing Sun were trying to claw its way back around the
edge. . . .
And then all the light went from the sky, and the stars appeared. Above and to one side of Neveya,
the pink globe of Jenas became visible, while beyond it Sephelgo's white-veined features shone as
crescents of crystal. Lower was Aniar, graying and mottled, swimming to the side of Neveya,
transfixed by the spear of the celestial sea seen edgewise, with the white speck of Delem farther
out still along the same line. As the astronomers peered and recited their measures, scribes
marked the stone that would later be cut for incorporation into the records.
The picture showed a disk pierced by a shallowly sloping line, standing on an arrowhead. Smaller
circles showed the other visible worlds and their dispositions, with major stars represented by
their symbols. A table incised beneath the design gave precise directions and elevations.
PART ONE
JUPITER
Creator of Worlds
1
Almost twenty years before, as a nineteen-year-old engineering student at college, Landen Keene
had astounded drivers on the interstate near the campus by overtaking them with ease in a 1959
Nash Rambler body fixed to a reinforced chassis on racing suspension, mounting an L88 Corvette
engine. He had also more than impressed the two state troopers who handed him a ticket, but they
were unable to cite his handiwork on a single safety violation. One of them had even indicated
interest if Keene ever found himself of a mind to sell. "Keep at it, kid," he had told Keene. "One
day you'll make a damned good engineer—supposin' you live long enough, of course, that is."
These days, it seemed, things worked the other way around. Outdated engineering camouflaged in
futuristic-looking shells was hyped as a wonder of the age, the best that taxpayers' money could
buy. Keene sat in the cramped crew compartment of the NIFTV—pronounced "Nifteev," standing for
Nuclear Indigenously Fueled Test Vehicle—wedged comfortably into the seat at the Engineer's
station by the mild quarter-g of sustained thrust cutting the craft across freefall orbits, and
stared at the image on the main screen. It showed the elongated body, flaring into a delta tail-
wing with tip-fins, of the spaceplane riding twenty-five miles ahead off the port lower bow,
closing slowly as the NIFTV overhauled it. Officially, it was designated an "Advanced Propulsion
Unit." Its white lines were illuminated in direct light from the Sun showing above the silhouette
of Earth, revealing the insignia of both the U.S. Air Force Space Command and United Nations
Global Defense Force. (Exactly what the entire globe was to be defended from had never been
spelled out.) The NIFTV, by contrast, with its framework of struts and ties holding together an
assemblage of test engine and auxiliary motors, external tanks, and crew module, was ungainly and
ugly. The APU looked sleek on the covers of glossy promotional government brochures and was
pleasing to bureaucrats. The NIFTV was a creature of engineers—a space workhorse, born of
pragmatism and utility.
Ricardo's voice came over the circuit from the Ccom station—Communications and Computing. "We've
got a beam from them now. I'm windowing onto the main screen, copying you, Warren."
"Gotcha." Warren Fassner, research project leader at Amspace Corporation's Propulsion Division and
coordinator of the current mission, acknowledged from the control room at Space Dock, at that
moment orbiting twelve thousand miles away above the far side of Earth. "It looks like you guys
are on stage. Make it a good one. We're getting the hookups." To avoid giving somebody officious
somewhere an opportunity to interfere, Keene had persuaded the public relations people at Amspace
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to hold until the last moment before slipping word of the mission to the networks. Since it was
something new and sounded exciting, the networks were interested.
A helmeted head and shoulders showing a gray flight suit with Space Command insignia appeared in a
one-eighth window at the top right of the screen. "This is Commander Voaks from USAFSC APU to
approaching craft U-ASC-16R. You are entering a restricted zone posted as reserved for official
Space Command operations. Identify yourself and announce your intentions."
Joe answered from the Pilot station, squeezed centrally behind the other two, which were angled
inward to face the bulkhead carrying the screens. "Captain Elms from U-ASC-16R acknowledging APU.
We are a private research vehicle owned and operated by the Amspace Corporation."
"We are about to commence a high-acceleration test. For your own safety, my orders are to warn you
off-limits."
"We're paralleling you outside the posted limit. Just taking a ringside seat. Don't mind us. Let's
get on with the show."
Ricardo cut in again: "We've got another incoming—military priority band prefix."
"This is General Burgess, Space Command Ground Control Center, and I demand to speak to—"
Joe shook his head in the background behind Keene's console. "We're gonna be too busy here for
this. I'm throwing this one to you, Warren."
"Sure, switch him through. We'll handle it," Fassner said from the Space Dock. It had been
expected. Ricardo clicked entries in a table on one of his auxiliary screens, and the irate
general was consigned off to a string of comsat links around the planet.
"APU to Amspace 16R. You have been warned in accordance with regulatory requirements. Be advised
that your continued proximity to this operation will not be taken as indicative of a desirably
cooperative attitude. Negative consequences may result. This is APU, out." The window vanished.
"Negative consequences, guys," Keene repeated. "That's it—it's all over for us. They'll find some
bug in our parking lot that needs to be protected now. Close down the head office."
"Where do they get those guys?" Ricardo asked as he scanned his displays and made adjustments. "I
mean, do they have to be programmed to talk like that? . . ." His voice trailed off, and he leaned
forward. "Okay, this is it. We're registering their exhaust plume on thermal: preboost profile."
As Ricardo spoke, the APU's image sprouted a tail of white heat, growing rapidly to extend several
times the length of the vessel.
"Full burn," Joe's voice confirmed. "We're looking at about, aw . . . two gee initial. Downrange
radar is tracking." The Air Force spaceplane was accelerating away, commencing its test. While Joe
continued reading off time checks and numbers, Keene rechecked his own panel to make sure all the
NIFTV's systems were ready, then turned his eyes again to the image shrinking and foreshortening
on the main screen. Advanced propulsion, he thought to himself scornfully. Pure hydrogen and
whatever they called the latest oxidizer, it was still chemicals. NASA, circa 1960s, repackaged in
an Air Force suit, its adequacy a giveaway of what it was intended for: a high-altitude police
cruiser to patrol the envisaged one-world state. NIFTV had the potential to bring the Solar System
into Earth's backyard, but the powers that Earth's destiny depended on weren't interested. If the
day ever arrived when their one-world order looked like becoming a reality, that, Keene vowed,
would be when he'd leave it all and go out to join the Kronians. But with enterprises like Amspace
still able to find backers, there was hope yet.
Fassner, having evidently passed the general on to someone else, reappeared on the beam from Space
Dock. "Okay, that's looking good now. Let's go after 'em."
"On standby at Fire-Ready," Keene confirmed.
"Go, engine. Take it up to eighty," Joe ordered.
Keene initiated the start-up and felt himself being squashed back in his seat as he increased
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reactant flow to bring the NIFTV quickly up to eighty percent power. Lead gloves encased his
hands. He felt his cheeks and lips weighed back over his facial bones, baring his teeth. Smaller
screens on the bulkhead in front of him showed deformed parodies of the faces of Ricardo and Joe.
"Lateral thrusters on. Pulsing to commence roll now," Joe grated, his mouth barely moving.
"APU ahead low, declination twenty-seven degrees and increasing," Ricardo reported. "We're twelve-
point-two miles off the axis and holding. Course projection is clear."
It was a stunt to get the world's attention. The news channels had publicized that the Defense
Department would be testing a new propulsion system designed for low-orbit maneuvering and
announced it as a breakthrough. While the spaceplane was now in its maximum acceleration phase,
the NIFTV was not only overtaking it but tracing a spiral twenty-plus miles in diameter about its
course—literally running rings around it. A comm beam latched on again to deliver another tirade.
Ricardo looked questioningly at Joe; Joe made a tossing-away motion with his head; Ricardo grinned
and switched the call over the detour link to Control.
"Yeaaah!" Keene whooped, smacking the armrests of his seat. "Was that a bird? Was it a plane? No,
it was us, guys. Hey, look at that thing. It's like a dead duck in the water out there."
"Eat our dust, General," Ricardo sang.
The APU went into a slow curve. Joe altered thrust parameters and stayed with it easily. He ran an
eye over the monitors and gave a satisfied nod. "Okay," he said to the others. "Take her up to
full burn. Now let's show them what we can really do."
As the NIFTV accelerated along its continuing spiral course, a white haze of more distant light
appeared along the top edge of the screen, moving slowly down to blot out the starfield
background. It grew until it became part of a vast band extending off the screen on both sides,
losing the APU spaceplane in its brilliance as it became a background to it.
2
The planetoid had come out of Jupiter. It was christened Athena.
For more than half a century, there had been astronomers dissenting from the mainstream view of
planetary origins, trying to make themselves heard. The generally accepted nebular theory, in
which the Sun, its planets, and their satellites all condensed together from a contracting cloud
of primordial gas and dust, they maintained, was not tenable. The observed distribution of angular
momentum did not fit the model, and tidal disruption by Jupiter would have prevented the accretion
of compact objects inside its orbit. Some proposed an alternative mechanism for the formation of
the inner planets based upon analysis of the fluid dynamics of Jupiter's core. According to this
theory, the giant planet's rapid rotation and rate of material acquisition would result in
periodic instabilities leading to eventual fission and the ejection of surplus mass. The bulk of
the shed matter would most likely be thrown out of the Solar System, but lesser drops torn off in
the process could go into solar-capture orbits.
In the main, the reaction of the scientific orthodoxy was to dismiss the suggestion as too much at
odds with established notions and find arguments to show why it couldn't happen. Then, after the
onset of sudden irregularities in Jupiter's rotation followed by several weeks of progressive
deformation in shape beneath the gas envelope, it did.
Rivaling the Earth itself in size, white-hot from the energy that had attended its birth, and
blazing a fiery tail tens of millions of miles long, Athena had been plunging sunward for ten
months, all the time gaining in speed and brightness. Spectral analysis showed it to be composed
of a mix of core and crustal materials trailing an envelope of ionized Jovian atmospheric gases.
Currently crossing the Earth's orbit sixty million miles ahead of the Earth, it was visible to the
naked eye across a quarter of the sky before dawn and after sundown. During the next month it
would accelerate into a tight turn around the Sun, bringing it to within a quarter of a million
miles at perihelion, covering more than a million miles in an hour and practically reversing
direction to pass little more than fifteen million miles ahead of the approaching Earth on its way
back to the outer Solar System. It was predicted that the spectacle would dim into insignificance
any comet ever before seen in history.
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3
Space Dock was built in the form of a short, fat dumbbell passing radially through a cylindrical
hub. Cramped and dirty, noisy and oily, it normally accommodated between twenty and thirty people.
It had been built several years previously as a joint venture by a consortium of private
interests, of which Amspace was one of the principals, to provide an orbiting test base for space
vehicles and technologies at a time when depending on government to provide facilities had been
too fraught with delay and political uncertainties to be reliable.
A stubby-winged surface lifter lay docked at the far end of the hub when Joe attached the NIFTV at
one of Space Dock's ports. A minishuttle bearing the Amspace logo was standing a short distance
off. It was forty minutes since the NIFTV parted company from the Air Force spaceplane, by which
time it had pulled fully a hundred miles ahead despite having traced its circular pattern
continuously. The three crew were jubilant as they hauled themselves through the lock into the
cluttered surroundings of pipes and machinery to the welcoming shouts and back-slaps of their
waiting colleagues. Keene, coming first, waved and grinned in acknowledgment. Behind him came
Ricardo, his mouth frozen wide, setting his teeth off white against his Mediterranean-olive skin,
with Joe making a double thumbs-up sign as he floated out last. They were making the best of the
enthusiasm around them while they had the chance. It was not exactly representative of the
reaction they expected from the world in general, which for the most part would no doubt be
shocked rather than appreciative. But that, after all, had been the whole idea.
Warren Fassner, in track pants and a red T-shirt, was waiting in the suiting chamber past the
lock, where a technician began helping Keene out of his flight garb. Fassner had red hair with a
matching, ragged mustache, and a large frame with an ample fleshy covering that gave the
impression of sagging slightly when in gravity. Here, it was more evenly distributed, making him
appear sprightlier, if maybe a little bloated, compared to normal.
"Great show, Lan!" he greeted. "That should make the high slots this evening. Looks like the baby
performed just fine."
"Just as much your show. It's your baby." Keene pushed himself forward to make room as Ricardo and
Joe crowded in at the end of the chamber behind. "And how goes it with our friends?" He meant the
branches of officialdom connected with the APU test.
Fassner pulled a face, grinning simultaneously. "Mad as hell. Corpus Christi has got lawyers from
Washington on the line now."
"Already?"
"Probably being aimed by wrathful agency heads. Marvin says they're trying to come up with some
kind of permission or approval that we should have obtained first."
It had been expected, even though nothing had violated any explicit prohibition. Thanks mainly to
the reticence of the Russians, Southeast Asians, and the Chinese, the world had not actually
banned the launching of nuclear technology into orbit. It was just that nobody had thought that
any organization outside government would contemplate doing it, while everyone on the inside was
too vulnerable to pressure groups and public opinion to want to get involved. Now the regulatory
agencies would be vying with each other to placate the eco lobbies by showing who had the most
teeth.
"Anyhow, you've done your part," Fassner said. "The Corpus Christi office can deal with
Washington. That's what it's got a legal department for." He clapped Keene lightly on the shoulder
and used a handrail to haul himself past to say a few words to the other two. "Hey, Ric, can't you
do something about that grin? You're dazzling my eyes here."
Ricardo's smile only widened further. "Didn't we make a meal out of those turkeys, eh?"
"Joe, you were right on, all the way. So how did the modified RTs handle? Pretty good, I guess."
"Like a dream, Warren, like a dream. . . ."
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Keene stowed the last of his gear in an end locker and signed that the technician had retrieved
the diagnostic recording chip from his suit. Feeling less restricted now in shirtsleeves and
fatigue pants, he exited through a pressure door and transverse shaft outside Number Two Pump
Compartment to enter the "Yellow" end of the Hub Main Longitudinal Corridor—the walls in different
sections of Space Dock were color coded to help newcomers orientate. More well-wishers, some in
workshirts and jeans, others in coveralls, one in a pressure suit, were waiting to add their
congratulations as he passed through. He came to "Broadway"—a confusion of shafts and split levels
leading away seemingly in all directions, where the hub and the booms connecting the two ends of
the dumbbell intersected—and wove his way through openings and between guide rails to the "Blue"
well. Several more figures were anchored or floating in various attitudes.
"You guys made the day, Lan," one called out.
"Great stuff, man!"
"Still ain't stopped laughin'. Even if it gets the firm shut down, it was worth it."
Keene reversed to glide into the transverse shaft feet-first. He pushed himself off, using one of
the hand hoops along the vertical rail, and felt the wall to one side nudge against him gently. As
he progressed farther, the motion imparted by the rail grew stronger, causing him to move faster
with a distinct, growing sensation of heading "down." By the time he reached the three-level wheel
forming the Blue end of the dumbbell, he was using the hoops to retard himself. He began using his
feet to climb down ladder-fashion as he passed through the upper deck, and stepped off at the mid-
deck to find Joyce and Stevie waiting for him outside Ccoms.
"Damned good show," Stevie offered. He was thirtyish, British, and sometimes talked like an old
movie. Keene nodded and returned a strained smile. He knew they all meant well, but this was
getting a bit tiring.
Joyce was the senior comtech. She was one of those who did their best to look clean and
professional, but her white shirt and sky blue pants, although no doubt clean that day, were
showing grime, and there were flecks of grit in her black, close-trimmed hair. That was one of the
facts of life that came with the territory. Dirt in zero-g didn't fall obligingly to the floor and
accumulate in out-of-the-way places to be removed when convenient. Despite all the ducts and
filters and fans, space habitats tended to be smelly, too.
She smiled, managing to convey the suggestion of freshness in spite of it all. "Even better than
you promised," she complimented.
"Always make your surprises pleasant ones," Keene said, yawning in the close air. "People forget
bad predictions that were wrong. But tell them one time that things will be okay and be wrong, and
they'll never forgive you."
"Getting philosophical? Is this a new postflight syndrome or something?"
"I don't know. But I could sure use a postflight coffee."
"I'll get one," Stevie said, and moved away along one of the passages.
Joyce nodded to indicate the doorway through to the Ccoms room. "We've got PCN on now, asking to
talk to one of the crew. You want to take it?"
"Sure. Who is it?"
"Somebody called John Feld from their Los Angeles office. He's linked through via Corpus Christi."
"Uh-huh." Keene followed Joyce between the communications equipment racks and control panels.
"Have we a friendly native?"
"It's difficult to say," Joyce answered as they came to a live screen on one of the consoles. The
face showing on it was of a man in his forties with clear blue eyes and straight, yellow hair
brushed to the side. He turned to look out full-face as Keene moved within the viewing angle of
the console pickup.
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"Hello. I'm Landen Keene—NIFTV's flight engineer; also one of the principal design engineers
involved with the project."
"John Feld, Pacific Coast Network news."
"Hi."
"You are with the Amspace Corporation, Dr. Keene?"
"In a way. I run a private engineering consultancy that Amspace contracts design work and
theoretical studies to."
Feld looked mildly surprised. "And does this relationship result in your going into space often?"
he asked.
"Oh, Amspace and Protonix—that's the name of my company—have known each other for a long time. I
go wherever the job demands. A desk has more leg room, but this way we get to have more fun."
"As we saw," Feld agreed. "That was a spectacular performance you people gave up there earlier."
"And it was in spite of everything this country has done in the last forty years, not thanks to
any of it," Keene replied.
"So what were you demonstrating? Obviously you were doing more than having fun. Is it another
version of the message we hear from time to time about private enterprise being able to do things
better than government?"
Keene shook his head. "Hell no. What we were telling you has to do with the whole future of
humanity, not somebody's political or economic ideology. The world is still burying its head in
the sand and refusing to face what Athena is telling us: the universe isn't a safe place. For our
own good, we need a commitment on a massive scale to broadening what the Kronians have pioneered
and spreading ourselves around more of space. What we showed today is that we can start doing it
right now, without needing to negotiate any deals with the Kronians—although if you want my
opinion, we should avail ourselves of any help they offer. We already have the technology and the
industries. The vehicle that we demonstrated today was a test bed for a Nuclear Indigenously
Fueled engine. That means it uses a nuclear thermal reactor to heat an indigenous propellant gas
as a reaction mass. `Indigenous': native to a particular place."
Feld seemed to understand the term but looked puzzled. "Okay. . . . But where are we talking
about, exactly, in this instance?"
Keene spread his hands. "That's the whole point: anywhere that you're operating. You see, it works
with a whole range of substances that occur naturally just about wherever you might happen to be.
Venus is rich in carbon dioxide; the asteroids and ice moons of the gas-giants give unlimited
water; others, such as Saturn's Titan and Neptune's Triton have methane; you can also use
nitrogen, carbon monoxide, hydrogen, argon. In other words, it opens up the entire Solar System by
affording ready refueling sources wherever you go. Today we were using water, and you saw the
results. Methane would perform about fifty percent better still."
"So was today's effort to get publicity for a new technology that you've developed? If so, it
certainly seems to have been successful."
"New? No way. It was being talked about back in the 1960s. But antinuclear phobia took over, and
we've been at a standstill. What we're trying to do is more wake the country up again."
"Ah, but weren't there good reasons?" Feld seemed on more familiar ground, suddenly. "Surely there
are hazards associated with taking such devices into orbit that haven't been resolved yet. Isn't
it true that if the radioactive material from just one reactor were spread evenly through the
atmosphere—"
"It isn't going to get spread evenly around the planet. There's enough gasoline in every city to—"
Keene broke off as he saw that Feld was glancing aside, as if taking directions from somewhere off-
screen. He looked back.
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"Thank you, Dr. Keene. Apparently Captain Elms is standing by up there in the Amspace satellite
now, and we would like to hear a few words from him too while we've got the connection. That was
very interesting. Let's hope you have a safe trip back down."
"My pleasure," Keene grunted. The screen blanked to a test mode.
Joyce, who had moved away to talk to the duty supervisor on the far side of the room and then come
back, stepped forward from where she had been watching. "See, you've scared them off again, Lan.
You always have to start getting political."
"Hell, the problem's political," Keene grumbled. "How is it supposed to get solved if we can't
mention it?"
Stevie reappeared carrying a plastic mug of black coffee and handed it to him. Keene nodded,
sipped to test the heat, then took a longer drink gratefully. "But you're right," he told Joyce.
"I should know better by now. It's gotten to be something of a reflex, I guess."
"Falling into patterns of habit is normal with advancing age," she assured him cheerfully.
"Thanks. Just what I needed."
The supervisor called over to them. "They're on hold now, Joyce. Do you want it through there
again?"
"Yes, we're done with Pacific," Joyce called back over the consoles. "You've got another call
waiting," she told Keene. He drank from his coffee mug again, as if fortifying himself. "Oh, I
think you'll like this one," Joyce said. She gazed expectantly at the test pattern on the screen.
It changed suddenly to present a face once again, this time a woman's.
Keene blinked in surprise. "It's Sariena!" he exclaimed.
She was in her early thirties, perhaps, with the finely formed features combining just the right
amount of firmness with a softening of feminine roundness that fashion modeling agencies and
cosmetics advertisers will scour a continent for. Her hair was shoulder-length, richly dark with a
hint of wave at the tips, and her skin a clear dusky brown, setting off a pair of light gray,
curiously opalescent eyes which at first sight jarred with such a complexion, but produced a
strangely fascinating effect as one adjusted to them. Keene could have pictured her as an Arabian
princess of fairy tale, or a rajah's daughter. And that was just from electronic images; they had
never actually met. For Sariena was not of Earth at all but from Kronia, the collective name for
the oasis of human habitation established among the moons of Saturn. The name came from Kronos,
the Ancient Greek name for Saturn, who had ruled the heavens during Earth's Golden Age.
"Hello, Lan," she greeted. "And is that Joyce with you there?"
"I'm here," Joyce put in, coming closer.
"Ah yes, it is." Sariena's smile was restrained enough to preserve dignity, wide enough not to
appear cold. "I just wanted to let you know that the shuttles are in orbit with us now, and we'll
be on our way down to the surface later today, arriving in Washington this evening."
"Sorry if I've been out of touch," Keene said. "I've been a bit busy lately, as you've probably
gathered."
Sariena was aboard the Kronian long-range transporter vessel Osiris, now parked in Earth orbit
after a three-month voyage from the Saturnian system. In that time, the communications turnaround
delay had decreased steadily from over two hours when the ship set out. With preparations for the
NIFTV demonstration taking up all his time, Keene hadn't talked with the Kronians at all during
the past week. Now, suddenly, it was a pleasant change to find himself able to interact with them
normally.
"Yes. We all thought that show of yours today was terrific," Sariena said. "The timing was
perfect. It'll give us a good opening theme for the talks. Gallian asked me to say thanks, and
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that he's looking forward to meeting you in person at last too." Gallian was the head of the
Kronian mission.
"You should thank the Air Force Space Command more than us," Keene replied. "They picked today for
their test. We just went along with it."
"So do you have any idea yet when we'll be able to meet you?" Sariena asked.
"Well, you're probably going to be tied up with formal receptions and so forth for a while," Keene
said. "I try not to get involved in things like that. But I've made time to be in Washington for a
few days, starting Monday. We could probably work something in then."
"I'll let Gallian know," Sariena said.
Besides being a consultant to Amspace in Texas, Keene also acted as an advisor on space-related
nuclear issues to various government offices, and maintained a Washington office for the purpose.
He evaluated official reports and proposals, prepared recommendations, and testified before
committees. A lot of congresspeople and other denizens of the Hill also consulted him privately
for off-the-record views and background details. Most of them were better informed on issues that
concerned them than the required public posturing sometimes allowed them to admit.
He looked at the face that he knew only from screens, outwardly so composed, yet what kind of
agitation and uncertainties—fear even—had to be churning inside? In all her adult life, she had
never seen an ocean, breathed a planet's air, or walked under an open sky. She had been taken to
Kronia as a child in the early days when the original base, named Kropotkin, was constructed on
the moon Dione. Now she was returning for the first time as one of the deputation that the Saturn
colony had sent to Earth following the Athena event to press the same case that Keene had
summarized to Feld.
Keene raised his coffee mug. "And before any of those guys in tuxedos have a chance to get started
with their toasts and speeches, let us be the first to say, Welcome to Earth, finally. The main
thing you have to remember is that leaving the outside door open is okay. But don't try walking on
the blue stuff."
Sariena laughed. "Will you be able to make it to Washington too, Joyce?"
"Sorry. Not for a while, anyhow. I'm stuck up in this grimy can for another three weeks."
"Is that all?"
"Yeah, right, okay—you've got me. I was forgetting. What's three weeks in space to you guys?"
"But their accommodation is probably a bit more roomy," Keene said to Joyce.
"When are you going back down, Lan?" Sariena asked.
"In a couple of hours, probably. The firm's bus is up here waiting already." He gave Joyce a
sideways look. "Then it'll be a shower and a swim, clean clothes . . ." He watched the look
forming on her face. "And maybe a good steak and some wine out somewhere nice tonight."
"Pig," Joyce muttered hatefully.
* * *
The Amspace minishuttle detached from Space Dock a little under three hours later. As the craft
fell away, Keene was able to catch a glimpse of the Osiris passing above as an elongated bead of
light in its higher orbit. Low to one side, partly eclipsed by the curve of Earth's dark side,
stretched the awesome spectacle of Athena's braided tail streaming in the solar wind as the
supercomet fell toward the Sun.
4
Amspace's headquarters offices were located in Corpus Christi, southeast Texas, on North Water
Street, a couple of blocks inland from the marinas on Corpus Christi Bay, at the fashionable,
downtown end of Shoreline Boulevard. The company's main manufacturing, engineering, and research
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center was twenty miles south of the city at Kingsville, with a launch facility thirty miles
farther south at a place called San Saucillo, on the plain of sandy flats and sage brush between
Laredo and the Gulf. It was Oil Country, and much of the company's founding impetus had derived
from the tradition of independence rooted in private capital and sympathetic local politics. All
the same, taking an initiative toward developing the longer-term potential of space was a
contentious and uncertain issue, and as insurance the corporation was constructing a second launch
complex over the border in Mexico, on a highland plateau known as Montemorelos. Besides affording
backup capability, Montemorelos would provide a means of continuing operations in the event that
San Saucillo was shut down by politics.
It was late morning when the minishuttle carrying Keene and the other two NIFTV crew, along with
several others from Space Dock who had been involved in the test mission, landed at the Saucillo
site under a sun beating down through a dust haze that tinted the plain blue with distance. A bus
carried the arrivals from the pad area to the assembly and administration complex at the far end
of the landing field, where there was an interview session with waiting TV reporters. From there,
a company helicopter flew them to the main plant at Kingsville for a post-mission debriefing over
a burgers-and-fries lunch with senior technical staff in the office of the Technical Vice
President, Harry Halloran. A lot of numbers and preliminary flight data were bandied about, and
the NIFTV's performance analyzed. The consensus was that the demonstration had comfortably
exceeded expectations.
By rights, that ought to have been good news. But such were the circumstances of the times that
negative reactions could be expected as a virtual certainty too. And, indeed, by afternoon the
protest had already started, ranging from diplomatic notes being delivered in Washington to poster-
waving in the street outside Amspace's Corpus Christi offices. All the news channels were airing
comments or polling views, and the company's switchboard and electronic mail servers were
overloading. So if it was true that there really is no such thing as bad publicity, and since the
whole object had been to get attention, then there could be no serious grounds for complaint.
As it turned out, many of the incoming messages were supportive. The British government expressed
the hope that the demonstration might mark the beginning of a turnaround in world opinion that was
long overdue. A Russian corporation revealed that it was working along similar lines to the NIFTV
and would be flying a test engine of its own within six months. By three o'clock, Amspace had
received twenty-six inquiries from hopeful would-be pilots. The meeting ended with the hope that
the coming weekend might afford a forced cooling-off period. After that, the case the Kronians had
come to argue for Earth expanding its space effort would endorse Amspace's position strongly. So
all in all, events seemed to have worked themselves in quite a timely fashion.
While people were still collecting papers together and shutting down laptops, Wallace Lomack, the
company's Chief Design Engineer, came over to where Keene was sitting with Joe Elms and Ricardo.
"It was the Rambler all over again, Lan," he said jovially. "Right?"
Keene looked up, momentarily nonplussed. "Hi, Wally. What?"
"A long time ago, you told us that story about the Nash Rambler that you souped up and wiped out
everything on the highway with back when you were a student. The stunt today was the same thing
all over again, right? That was what gave you the idea."
Finally, the penny dropped. "Oh, you still remember that story, eh?" Keene said.
"I never heard that one," Joe murmured, tidying up his notes.
"Lan's history of dreaming up crazy schemes and getting everyone to go along with them goes all
the way back," Wally replied. Then, to Keene, "I bet you never thought it would come to anything
like this, though, eh?"
"You're right. I never thought it would. . . ." Keene shrugged. "So what are you up to over the
weekend, Wally? Anything wild and exciting?"
Lomack left his tie loosened and slipped on his jacket, not bothering trying to fasten it over his
ample midriff. "Oh, bit of boating, bit of fishing—something to amuse the grandkids, you know. How
about you, Lan?"
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file:///F|/rah/James%20P.%20Hogan/Hogan,%20James%20P%20-%20Cradle%20of%2Saturn.txtTitle:CradleofSaturnAuthor:JamesP.HoganPROLOGUETimeshadalwaysbeenplentiful.Sincethebeginningoftheagewhentheirancestorsfirstwalkedintheworld,thePeoplehadlivedinharmonywiththespiritsandtheelements.Theirlanguagehadnow...

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