CHAPTER 11

When all else fails, steal the documentation.
-- J. Neil Schulman

1 October

Davy Crockett welcomed the return of fall classes with a joy he had not experienced in years. The population of NYU nearly tripled with the start of the new school year, which was good news for the South Bronx Space Project, since it relied on one notorious law of nature: that college students tended to have few compunctions about spending their parents' money.

Over at the warehouse, the skeletal form of their SSTO space chopper took shape. They paid for very little of it with cash. The students donated their labor. The aircraft-quality aluminum-lithium struts came from Penny Giannini, the metal-shop student, who had sweet-talked them out of a surplus-aircraft dealer in Arizona. The propellant tanks were, quite literally, woven in a class on composite materials used for cryogenic storage. The students received top scores for the quality of their work. Ditto for the graphite-fiber rotor blade wrapped in an outer skin of Iconel-X alloy. Off campus -- in Passaic -- another team constructed the tip rockets using CAD-CAM machinery.

Bernadette spent most mornings and every evening at her computer, stacks of technical journals around her, studying the digital blueprints onscreen, constructing a virtual prototype to put through simulated flight tests, stress analyses, and emergencies. She spent the summer accumulating several megabytes of notes on subjects ancillary to spacecraft design: life support, waste management, celestial and inertial navigation, radiation, and physiological effects of spaceflight.

"Sometimes" she told Davy on their way to the chemistry department, "I think my brain's going to explode from data overload."

She wore an enticing retropunk outfit that day: black t-shirt razored in strategically teasing places, black jeans peppered by shotgun pellets, and more of her silver bracelets and necklaces. She put it all to good use keeping a chemistry prof distracted while Crockett and Friedman -- in lab coats -- spirited away a cart of elaborate laboratory glassware, chemicals, and solvents.

Sam ferried the equipment to the warehouse while Bernadette and Davy retreated to a wing of the physics dorm that they had gradually appropriated for the South Bronx Project. In a room marked "For Post-Grad Study Only," a dozen technofreaks labored away over computers and microfilm readers.

Bernadette clapped her hands in glee. "This is ten times the computing power I've got!"

Crockett grinned. The doors opened to admit six more undergrads maneuvering a machine the size of a phone booth. Crockett immediately joined in and helped position the machine lengthwise by a section of bare wall.

"Image digitizer for microfilm," he announced to the room at large. The students glued to their consoles did not even hear him, but Bernadette's eyes widened. "Anything those guys find of value, we can now convert to e-text or CAD blueprints!"

"Where'd you find it?"

Davy smiled. "Let's just say it was checked out from the drafting library."

"Library!" Bernadette whipped her wrist up to look at her atom-shaped watch. "I'm supposed to be helping Natasha design spacesuits from our NASA library downloads!" She impetuously gave Davy an impulsive kiss on the lips and raced out of the room.

She had mastered the art of running in spike-heeled boots. For years she walked and ran in the normal human manner of heel-toe, heel-toe. Not only did she wear out her narrow heels, she was also prone to stumbling and turning her ankle. Then it dawned on her that high heels were an inherently unhuman -- very nearly inhuman -- fashion item. It required a totally different method of ambulation. She learned the fine art of walking and running exclusively on the balls of her feet so that the heels of her shoes and boots barely touched ground at all.

It was one of the myriad reasons she had accumulated for leaving Earth. In free fall, heels were not a problem.

* * *

Natasha chuckled. Her long black fingers raced across the keyboard, entering data from over two hundred measurements Bernadette had taken from Crockett. The sewing CAD program, which Natasha had specially modified, mulled over the inputs for a few moments, then piece by piece created cutting templates for a customized pressure suit. She ran both hands across her short-cropped hair and locked her fingers behind her head, saying with a note of triumph, "There it is, girl. No muss, no fuss. Are you sure it'll work, though?"

Bernadette looked up from the sewing machine. "Space suits for NASA cost a million bucks a shot and are about as comfortable as wearing pork barrels. I found this research report from the nineteen-sixties by a team that ought to have won the contract bid, except that their suits only cost a thousand dollars each and could be done by any seamstress. NASA probably figured that would have looked cheap, so for three decades astronauts have been lugging around thirty layers of cloth and a refrigerator when they could have been dressed in Spandex tights."

She unfurled the test piece on which she worked. A glistening ebony, it looked like a sheer, form-fitting top from a dominatrix fantasy. "I'm gonna try it." Bernadette removed her blouse and bra.

"I still can't believe those videos were real," Natasha said, helping her slip into the precisely cut and fitted garment.

Bernadette's hair -- a luxurious strawberry blond this week -- blossomed out of the neck hole. She Velcroed shut the opening and pulled her hands through the sleeves into the cat-burglar gloves. "It was real, all right. Think of it this way..." she slid the tight fabric around her breasts, which gratefully popped into their custom-fit cups. "The difference between down here and up there is only one measly atmosphere of pressure. Our skin is strong enough to withstand that gradient. It has quite a bit of tensile strength. The only problem is that it stretches too well. That means we swell up, which drops the pressure in our bloodstream, so our blood outgasses and vapor-locks our hearts. With just this second skin to keep our body volume constant, we don't expand. So we don't boil."

She looked at her figure in the full-length mirror on the inside of the door to Natasha's room. The glove-sleeves revealed every soft curve of her arms. She moved her fingers and wrist to observe the supple ease with which she could move. A deep breath proved that the Spandex stretched enough to allow for easy breathing. A side view, a frontal gaze, and an over-the-shoulder peek evoked a smile of satisfaction. The skin tight fabric described the twin circles of her nipples and areolæ.

"Girl, that's a fine form," Natasha said with a smile.

"Sure beats dressing like a polar bear." She struck a fists-on-hip pose, chest thrust proudly outward, and turned toward Natasha. "South Bronx Space Project recruitment poster."

"Take it to Wall Street, hon, and get us some venture capitalists." Natasha saved her screen work and called up a different program. This one displayed a skeleton view of the spaceship with the ventilation system highlighted in 3-D graphics. "Because I just priced our life-support system and molecular sieves are not the cheapest way to filter out impurities."

"Sam can probably order them through the chemistry department."

"I'd just go with lithium hydroxide to scrub the CO2. I mean, how long do you plan to stay up there?"

"Davy thinks a week would be sufficient time to garner enough positive publicity so that we're not arrested the moment we land."

Natasha rubbed the bridge of her nose and turned her attention toward the computer display. "Don't count on the Man having such a short attention span."

* * *

Barry Gibbon, even though his busy schedule kept him off-campus most of the time, found that his guest lecturer status allowed him time to lobby the UN members on behalf of the Interplanetary Treaty while still having contact with his most valuable investment -- tomorrow's leaders. He began to smell a rat at NYU, though; a space rat in the form of Davy Crockett.

His first hint of something in the air was the wholesale boycott of his class by the Crockett clique. At first, he chalked it up to politics: the boy obviously possessed an antipathy toward the space program. Crockett's father, after all, was a notorious conservative businessman with investments in military hardware. Such nationalist fools, Gibbon mused, never possessed the imagination to view the sublime importance of a humanity united behind a single goal. Some of it must have rubbed off on the son.

An indication that something more ominous might be in process arrived in the form of an off-hand comment by one of his other students. This one -- Johnson, Jones, something like that -- walked past him one day while talking to a student with whom the professor was unfamiliar. The only phrase he heard distinctly was "I bought the line about it being the set for a student film until they brought in four very real rocket engines." Then the boy saw him and shut up, turning three shades of crimson. Gibbon knew better than to let on that he had overheard the conversation. Time would bring the truth out.

He suspected Crockett, though. The post-grad's silly little wars had ceased abruptly at the same time that he had stopped attending class. He and his cronies were not signed up for the subsequent class this fall, but out of sight rarely meant out of mind to the professor.

He picked up his office phone and punched in a number. The greatest benefit to being a guru was that one acquired a limitless number of chelas, each one willing to play spy or mere rat-fink.

* * *

Everett Stevens, NYU administrator of finance, received a troubling report from one of his subordinates. His deep ebony eyes glanced over the report, which chronicled rather complicated attempts to cover up equipment missing from the Physics and Chemistry departments. He smiled coolly.

"Are you going to speak to Professor Gibbon about this?" his assistant asked.

"No," Stevens said. "I'm going straight to the top on this one."

* * *

"Crockett!" Stevens's shout caught Davy's ear from across the fountain in Washington Square Park.

The tall Stevens, immaculately attired in a three-piece suit that contrasted sharply with Crockett's tan fringed jacket and jeans, sat on one of the concrete benches and patted the empty space beside him. His sinister smile intrigued Crockett, who sauntered over to the man, a mask of curiosity on his face.

Stevens calmly mentioned the existence of the report to Crockett, concluding with, "May I point out that it has the Davy Crockett modus operandi scrawled all over it."

The post grad slipped into his Tennessee drawl. "Now, what would I want with seventy rolls of Kevlar and a ton of graphite fiber?"

"It had better not be for that bulletproof lingerie scheme you had last year."

"I think you're pointin' the stick at the wrong man, Mr. Stevens. I've given up on kid stuff. I'm totally devotin' myself to pursuin' my doctorate."

"In what?"

Crockett gazed at the sky. A gibbous Moon rose between two buildings. "Shucks, Mr. Stevens, I ain't rightly commenced to figure that out yet. But I'm devotin' to it."

"Oh, for God's sake, man." Stevens grasped the student's shoulder with firm brown fingers. "I have seen years of wasted potential in students such as you. School is not a con or a hustle. You should be here to take what knowledge you can get from us, not to grab whatever's not nailed down. I'll be watching you. One hint that you're ripping off this university and it's not just going to be a bill sent to daddy, it's going to be cops and courts. Understand?"

Crockett stared at him with genuine hurt. The accent disappeared from his speech. "Mr. Stevens, I am doing nothing that would injure the reputation or standing of NYU in any way."

"Keep it that way," Stevens said, rising to head back toward the university.

Crockett stayed on the bench, gazing heavenward. Posters for Rama Ben Samesh were stuck on bench backs, on poles, or blew lazily in the breeze. He watched the Moon, faint in the afternoon's hazy air. Bernadette's shadow fell across his face, interrupting his daydream. He turned his eyes to see that her lab coat only partially concealed an unbelievably revealing black catsuit. The electric-blue gym bag at her side bulged spherically with the helmet he knew must be hidden inside.

She frowned. "We tested the skintight pressure suits in the city pound's decompression chamber," she said. "They work. But now we have trouble with the fuel supplier. Dynamic Cryonics wants cash up front and we don't have enough."

Crockett nodded. "Y'all are doing your part. It's time I got off my backside and pulled some strings I hadn't wanted to."

"You don't mean -- "

Crockett nodded with weary sadness.

* * *

In the hotel hall where Sam Friedman conducted his seminar, the crowd numbered over two hundred, mostly composed of wealthier twenty- to thirty-year-old professionals from downtown brokerages and banks. They stood, dressed in a variety of clothing; most evident were karate ghis and ærobics outfits. Friedman wore a simple white ghi with a red headband and belt. He walked on stage in a lithe, catlike (for him) fashion. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed at his Fu Manchu moustache and spoke in a tone he hoped conveyed a commanding presence.

"Amra the Hunter brings you greetings from the souls in your past. From this humble channel to infinite truths, learn the discipline of Sam Chi to open up your chakras and release your ek."

He began a clumsy, freestyle attempt at Tai Chi that the entire group faithfully followed as best they could. Bernadette stepped out of the wings to whisper in his ear.

"Davy's going to ask his father for money!"

His right leg in the air, Sam craned his neck back to stare at Bernadette in shock. "But they haven't spoken since he dropped out of Harvard Business College to come here!" He tried to regain his balance with a wild propellering of his arms but stumbled to the floorboards.

The entire seminar -- as one -- craned their necks back, whirled their arms, contorted their faces, and collapsed.

Bernadette bent to pat Sam's shoulder. "Keep it up, Amra."

* * *

William David Crockett IV faced William David Crockett III. The elder Crockett's office, richly appointed in expensive, ultramodern chrome and glass contained no hint of a past stretching beyond 1975 in either design or decor. Significantly, no Davy Crockett memorabilia were anywhere in sight. On the smooth, green glass desktop lay a stack of military specification books. Some visible to the younger Crockett displayed titles such as


F-15 ASAT MISSILE BID
HARDENED ORBITING DEFENSE INSTALLATIONS -- PLANETOID PHASE
BMDO CONTRACTORS DIRECTORY


Davy had barged into his father's home -- dressed in his finest Brooks Brothers suit -- with a simple request. "I'd like to establish a line of credit with the family's investment banker."

In a polished Boston accent that made the Kennedys sound like yokels, the elder Crockett asked, "Now William, what could you possibly want with something so crass as a million dollars?"

Davy, his accent unconsciously reverting to a virtual mimic of his father's, said, "It's for a little... real estate speculation."

His father harrumphed and strode to the window overlooking the conservatory. Outside the office, the remainder of the estate revealed the more traditional look of colonial design.

His father possessed strong shoulders and a middle-aged girth that made him look like a college quarterback gone on to comfortable wealth. His hair, still deep brown with just a peppering of grey at the temples, did not have a follicle out of place. Even at home, he wore a three-piece suit. He stood gazing out the window awhile, then asked, "What sort of real estate? Where?"

"I'd rather not say at the moment. It's highly speculative. And I would want to grab it before anyone else has the notion to."

The older man shook his head. "I don't think you have the head for real estate."

Don't get riled, Davy thought, you're asking a favor, not demanding a right. "I have to start somewhere, father. Even the Davy Crockett dabbled in longshot land investment."

"And in the process lost his buckskin shirt," the other added with quiet contempt. "When he regained what little sanity he had, he entered politics. Had he built upon his heroic image, he might have become President. He didn't learn the art of compromise, though. Instead, he foolishly believed his legend, refused to support President Jackson, and went off like a damned sulking fool to the Alamo." The elder Crockett stared at his wayward son. "Now what have you really got up your sleeve?"

Davy realized that his father was a dead-end for financing. "Nothin'," he said, his accent reverting to Tennessee. "Just a pie-in-the sky idea."

Father gazed at son. Though they stood roughly the same height, to Davy it seemed as if his elder stared down on him from a considerable vantage. "William, this maudlin fixation on a long-dead ancestor has been the undoing of scores of Crocketts over eight generations. I rejected that ridiculous hero-worship and struck out on my own--"

Davy's hackles raised up. "Davy Crockett wouldn't have had anything to do with lobbying the military."

His father made a disparaging sound. "You really do believe his inflated legend. That's exactly why, however, I pursued the career I have -- because he wouldn't have. And it's brought us everything we own. I now have the influence to put you in the White House within fifteen years. I could still do it if you'd channel your ambition along reasonable lines. This mad scientist route you're pursuing..." He shook his head. "I deal with scientists and engineers all day long. Bean counters and button sorters, all of them. They spend their time writing up grant requests and where do they go with them? To me, hat in hand. The days of the pioneering men of science are over. They're all employees now. They work for the mba's. If I want a bomb, I tell them to design a bomb and they go off and do it. If you choose to become one of them, you're just selling yourself and your family short."

Davy answered with a bitter anger. "If you'd ever instilled in me any real values, something worth selling short, I'd -- " His eyes widened. A grin of inspiration and hope spread across his face. "Thanks, Paw!" he cried in his loudest ring-tailed roarer voice. Calculated to annoy his status-conscious father, it achieved that effect grandly. The young Crockett triumphantly drew a cheroot from his inside jacket pocket, lit it up with a match struck on his thumbnail, and took a puff. With an artful snap of his fingertips, he flicked the match across the room. Trailing smoke, it landed squarely in the smoked-glass ashtray an inch from his father's hand. The older man instinctively flinched.

"Paw," he said in his most Southern drawl. "You're going to be proud of me. I'll make my own fame and fortune on my own terms. Y'all wait and see."

His father turned his contemplation back toward the outside view. "I trust," he muttered, "the wait will be a tedious one."


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