CHAPTER 25

Every decent man is ashamed of the government he lives under.
-- H. L. Mencken

10 March

Though Larry Poubelle generally loathed lawyers, he acknowledged their necessity by doubling the number working on his problems with the government. In the first three months of the year, the team faced down a cease-and-desist order from the Interstate Commerce Commission regarding sales of Dædalus memorabilia, performed an end-run around both NASA and the Federal Aviation Administration regarding certification of Nomad as an experimental aircraft, brought suit against the Department of Transportation for technical violations of the Paperwork Reduction Act, and successfully quashed a suit by the Center for Space Exploration in the Public Interest seeking a restraining order against a launch from any federal facility.

The core of his team had honed their claws at American Atomic, battling all manner of lawsuits relating to nuclear energy litigation. For them, the whole question of space travel constituted a finger exercise. Enough vagueness and contradiction existed in US and international space law for them to storm about the courts like rampaging bulls or slither through loopholes like pencil-thin snakes.

Poubelle had no affection for people whose entire lives revolved around finding exceptions to everything, but he appreciated their dedication to the specialized trait and rewarded it.

He knew the other side was desperate when they sicced the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms on his hangar with an eye toward charging the Dædalus Project with "construction and possession of an explosive device," specifically, the explosive bolts that would detach Nomad from its mother aircraft. One of his lawyers, permanently stationed at the hangar, discovered seven errors in the warrant, including an incorrect address for the airport and the lack of the approving judge's signature. With Joseph Lester and Hillary Kaye on the scene delivering a live feed to GSN, the BATF retreated, blaming the mistake on flawed information from an investigator in the Justice Department who had a drinking problem. The Justice Department declined comment later that day.

Poubelle let the lawyers perform their arcane incantations and cast their Latinate runes. He was more intrigued by the interest generated by the Experimental Spacecraft Association. Already over two hundred people had joined, half of them submitting designs for the contest with about half of that group indicating that they intended to construct working models. Most were obvious nonsense or distant dreams, but at least a dozen consisted of detailed specifications, parts lists, and price sheets.

If we get a dozen members with realistic plans, he wondered, how many more are out there around the world, quietly constructing their ships rather than trying to deal with the crap I've had to handle? A sudden grin spread across his face. Maybe I really do have a contest on my hands.

* * *

Poubelle's nearest contender sat in his office reading the latest issue of The Private Space Journal. Thom Brodsky's lead story concerned the threat of the Interplanetary Treaty and the responses of Laurence Poubelle and Freespace Orbital. There followed updates on such obscure efforts as "Ace" Roberts in Northern California and a few others that were more talk than action. He glanced up from the screen to ask, "Thom, you're more hip to politics than I am. I just design these things. Do you think there's a concerted effort to keep us grounded?"

Brodsky guffawed. "Comes the dawn after twenty years!"

"It's just that this thing with the atf. It's so... vicious. They showed up armed."

Brodsky twirled his Project Dædalus cap on a finger. "Remember that Rex Ivarson novel back in the Seventies? Pindown? I don't doubt his contention that the military will never allow a civilian spacecraft to launch. I don't care how much money Poubelle has, he's in danger of an 'accident' at any point."

Cooper turned his attention back to the page layout on the computer screen. He ran a hand through his hair. "What about us?"

Brodsky sighed and let the cap spin across the office to hit with a thunk against the water cooler. "I don't think we have anything to worry about at the rate we're progressing." He glanced in the direction of Poubelle's hangar. "I wish he'd share the wealth. A guy such as he ought to be more willing to--"

"We can do it on our own," Cooper said sharply. After a pause, his voice dropped to a calmer tone. "If we just keep working at our grand plans, someday someone will walk through that door with a smile on his face and an offer to invest in--"

The office door swung wide to slam against the wall. Both men looked up to see a woman standing there, framed by desert sunshine. She was short, chestnut-haired, and feisty, dressed in green and black.

"Those bastards!" she cried out.

"May we help you?" Brodsky asked.

"If you have nothing to do with those bastards at NASA, you might."

Cooper started at her. "Nothing whatever."

She flopped down in the chair before Cooper's desk and picked up a copy of a recent Private Space Journal to fan herself. "That rat at the top of NASA, that Jack Craver, said -- officially, mind you -- that the Shuttle could not be made available for tourist flights. Safety concerns, he said. Liability. Lack of available payload space. UN treaties. Geez. And me with zillionaires that wouldn't think twice about popping a mil per seat."

Cooper looked at Brodsky. Brodsky raised his eyebrows, then shrugged.

"Excuse us," Cooper said. "May we ask... who are you?"

She stopped fanning herself and stared back at them in shock. "Leora Thane. Society Orbital Tours." She tossed the Journal back on the desk. "Geez, you mentioned me in your rag a year ago!"

Thom recovered first. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Thane. I've never seen a photograph of you. Please have a seat -- you already do. Of course. Coffee? Doughnut? Ice water?"

Cooper watched as Brodsky spent the next few moments soothing the woman's ruffled feathers. She wasted no time after that.

"Those NASA pinheads have jerked me around once too often. I came to them six months ago with an offer to send up eighty-five tourists on Constitution for a one-day flight. One measly day! And I'd pay them eighty-three million dollars. What sort of profit does that leave me? Who gets by on less than two percent these days? That's what they charge anyone else for a stinking satellite. So what, so people can get more TV channels? Geez, just what we need, more reruns of I Love Lucy. I was talking cultural enrichment! I was even going to give a seat free to some kid with polio or something. What more could I offer? Blood?" She collapsed back in the chair, then pulled a green-and-black leather cigarette case from her matching handbag.

"Damn' bastards. I had twenty-three people lined up. Twenty-three! At ten percent deposit! So I came here."

"Excuse me?" Cooper watched her light the long, black cigarette.

"Here," she said, using both hands for emphasis. "To this -- you should pardon the expression -- egg crate."

"Egg...?"

"Look, I've got people who want to take a spin around the planet. They've got the bucks, but the suits at NASA tell me -- officially, mind you -- to take a flying one. So here I am. Let's talk."

Cooper stared at her with as much incredulity as her behavior warranted. "About building a tourist spacecraft?"

"No, about getting an even tan. Of course about spacecraft. I'm a busy lady. Did I tell you NASA kept me waiting four months?"

Cooper jumped from his seat. "Let me show you our prototype. It could carry twenty as is, not counting a crew of two pilots and two flight attendants."

"That means I could only get twenty million a flight!"

Cooper smiled. "But if you pay us eighteen million, that's a ten percent profit to you."

Thane nodded, smiling. "I like you. You know how to set priorities. Now how do you make any money on this?"

He held out his arm to her, which she politely took, and spoke as he led her into the warehouse. "For less than the recurring cost of a single Shuttle flight -- for a mere three hundred million -- we could perform all of the development necessary to build a fleet of single-stage-to-orbit spacecraft within one to two years. With an average spacecraft lifespan of one thousand flights, the cost can be amortized per vehicle per flight to five grand for development and twenty-five grand for the vehicle itself. Oh, did I mention that if we can orbit one by next January, we could split half a billion dollars between us?"

Brodsky watched the pair disappear into the hangar. He shook his head and muttered, "Not hip to politics, huh?" Turning to the computer, he rearranged the layout of his newsletter to insert an announcement of a pact between Freespace Orbital and Society Orbital Tours.

He reached for a doughnut. Things were looking up.


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