Project Cyclops Part 9

"Then we'll make sure n.o.body snoops." He popped open an ice-cold beer for Bates, then one for himself. "From land or sea."

"Land or sea." Bates hoisted his icy green bottle.

"Which actually raises an interesting question." He took a sip, cold and bracing. "How about security from the air? Flyovers, that kind of action?"

"Let them come. There'll be nothing to see. Except for the launch pad and telemetry, everything's going to be underground. There're a lot of caves on the island--like that famous one on Antiparos. We're going to use those for the computers and a.s.sembly areas. And what we can't find in place, we'll just excavate."

It's beginning to sound a little too pat, Vance found himself thinking.

But that's what security experts were for. They were the guys who got paid to find holes in a project like this. . . .

The thing that kept gnawing at his mind, however, was the phrase "by land or sea." All along he'd worried about penetration from the air.

Had he been right after all?

CHAPTER THREE

7:48 P.M.

Sitting at Main Control, the central desk facing the large display screen, Cally Andros had just reached a conclusion. She was getting old. Two more weeks to her thirty-fifth birthday, then a measly five years till the big four-oh. After that she could only look forward to a holding action, fighting sags and crow's-feet. Building dikes to hold back the deluge of time.

It was depressing.

She sipped at a cup of black coffee emblazoned with the SatCom logo, the laser eye of the Cyclops, and impatiently drummed her fingers on the workstation keyboard, trying not to be distracted by meditations on mortality. Tonight for the first time they would nin up the superconducting coil all the way, in their most important test yet. The tech crews at the other end of the island predicted it would reach peak power in--she glanced at the huge digital clock on the blue wall next to the screen--twenty-seven minutes. . . .

What was wrong with her? She had thought that one over

a lot and decided the answer was nothing. She had dark Greek eyes, olive skin, and a figure that would stop a clock-- a perfect size eight.

But it got better. She had the best legs in the world. The absolute very best. If they wouldn't necessarily stop a timepiece, they'd sure as heck slowed a lot of traffic over the years.

No, her problem was opportunity. Whereas on paper this island was every single girl's dream--males trapped here by the carload--all the attractive/interesting men were either too young or too old or too dumb or too married. Moreover, those in the control room--mostly Ph.D.'s in their late twenties--saw her only as Dr. C. A. Andros, Director-in- Charge. There seemed to be an unspoken rule around Control that you didn't make a move on the boss lady. Anybody who could run this project had to be treated with the distance befitting authority. Especially since they believed all she really cared about was work.

Thanks a lot, whoever dreamed that one up.

The sickest part of all, though, was they were half right. She did not wish herself anywhere else in the world right now, men or no men. She occupied the center of the universe, was poised for the winner-take-all shot she could only have dreamed about five years ago, back when she was still fighting the mindless bureaucrats at NASA. With Project Cyclops she was running a half-billion-dollar gamble for the last big prize of the twentieth century. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never be handed anything this terrific ever again.

Born Calypso Andropolous thirty-four years ago, daughter of strong- minded Greek farmers, she had learned to believe in herself with a fierce, unshakable conviction. Until now, though, she had never really had the opportunity to test that faith. Until now.

It had not been an easy journey. After getting her doctorate in aeros.p.a.ce engineering from Cal Tech, she had struggled up through NASA's Kennedy Center bureaucracy to the position of chief a.n.a.lyst. But she had never achieved more than a desk job. She had wanted more, a lot more. Now, thanks to SatCom, in three days she would have it. Using a fifteen-gigawatt microwave laser nicknamed Cyclops, she was about to put SatCom in the forefront of the private race for s.p.a.ce.

Ironically, the company had built its s.p.a.ceport barely three hundred kilometers from her birthplace on the island of Naxos. She often thought about life's ironies: sometimes you had to return home to change the future. She barely remembered that rugged little island now; the images were faint and overly romantic. Those times dated back to when the junta of right-wing colonels had seized power in Greece. Soon thereafter her parents had emigrated; they and their nine-year-old daughter joining a large exodus of freedom-minded Greeks to New York.

They had been there only three months when her father died--the hospital said it was pneumonia; she knew it was mourning for Greece and all he had lost. He had loved it more than life. She was afraid, down inside in a place where she didn't visit much anymore, that he loved it more than he had loved her. So along the way she tried to forget all of it, to bury her memories of Greece. And now here she was back again. In New York, Cally Andropolous had, in spite of herself, thought incessantly of Greece; back here now, all she could think about was New York.

The strongest recollection was the third floor of a walk-up tenement on Tenth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street, a section of town widely known as h.e.l.l's Kitchen--and for good reason. The schools were designed to make sociopaths of all those trapped inside; only New York's famous Bronx High School of Science, one of the finest and most compet.i.tive public inst.i.tutions in the nation, offered an escape from their horror.

Accepted when she was thirteen, Calypso Andropolous graduated third in her cla.s.s. For her senior science project, she created a solid-fuel rocket, using, as the phrase goes, ordinary household chemicals. And she did it all by herself, with a little help from a skinny French Canadian boy named Georges LeFarge, who lived with his mother in Soho.

By that time, she knew exactly what she wanted. Her ambition was to be the first woman in s.p.a.ce.

n.o.body said it would be easy. But after the rocket--she

and Georges had launched it from the Morton Street Pier in Greenwich Village--she felt she was on her way. She had blossomed--in every way, much to her frustration--a lot quicker than Georges did. At age seventeen his idea of s.e.x was still to swap chemical formulas. So she finally gave up on him as a lover and decided to wait till college.

She chose Cal Tech, selected after turning down acceptances from half a dozen prestigious universities in the East. By then, Calypso Andropolous had decided she wanted to get as far away from West Forty- ninth Street as possible. And she never wanted to see another eggplant moussaka as long as she lived.

She also wanted a shorter name, and thus it was that her long Greek surname became merely Andros. That simple change had a liberating effect on her far beyond what she had expected. At last she felt truly American . . . and able to admit to loving nothing better than living off Whoppers and fries. Junk food was, in fact, the thing she missed most here. No, what she missed most was Alan. Still.

Georges had picked MIT, and she did not see him again until he came to Cal Tech for grad school. By that time she was deeply in love with Alan Harris, who was twenty years her senior. She was discovering things about herself she didn't want to know. Harris was a biochemistry professor, tall and darkly handsome, and she wanted desperately to live with him. She knew he was a notorious womanizer, but that didn't matter. She was looking for a missing father and she didn't care. It was what she wanted.

When he broke it off, she thought she wanted to die. The only one she had left to turn to was Georges. And they restarted a friendship as platonic as it had been back at Bronx Science, though it was deeper this time. Georges told her to forget about Harris and just concentrate on a first-rate dissertation.

It was not easy, but she did. Her project involved compressing a big computer program that calculated s.p.a.cecraft trajectories into a small one that could be operated on a Hewlett-Packard hand calculator. She then devised a way to create voice commands that could free up an astronaut's hands

while he--soon, she told herself, it would be she--handled other controls.

After reading every NASA report that NTIS had released on microfiche, she knew no one there had created anything like it. She also figured out that NASA was a hotbed of careerists, all protecting their own turf. The only obstacle to their accepting her new computer program would be the NIH syndrome--Not Invented Here. It turned out she was right, and wrong.

By happy chance, her dissertation came to the attention of Dr. Edward Olberg, a deputy director of trajectory control at the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center, who hired her a week later, with a GS rating a full two grades higher than customary. He knew a good thing when he saw it. And now Dr.

Cally Andros' computer work was the creation of a NASA employee. End of problem. She still wanted to be in the astronaut program, but she figured she had made a good start.

She was wrong. It turned out that she was far too valuable in the guidance section to let go. She published a lot of papers, grew very disillusioned, and was on the verge of telling them to stuff it, when .

An executive unknown to her, named William Bates, called one May morning three years ago, said he had read all her papers, and then offered her a job that caused her to postpone her dreams of s.p.a.ce flight. He wanted her to head up a private s.p.a.ce program. She was, he told her, too good to work for the government. She should be out in the real world, where things happened.

When she recovered from the shock, she felt an emotion she had not known since her first day at Bronx Science--she was scared. In the business world, the responsibilities were clear-cut and fatal. You were not blowing some anonymous taxpayer's money: it was real cash.

Furthermore, your responsibilities doubled. Not only did you have to make it work, you had to make a profit. She loved the challenge, but she quaked at the enormous risk.

Finally she made a deal. Yes, she would give up a sure career for a risky long shot, but on two conditions. First, she

got to pick her staff, and second, someday she would get to go into s.p.a.ce herself.

Although he clearly thought the second demand rather farfetched for SatCom, he a.s.sented to both. . . .

"How's it looking, Cally?" Bates was striding into Command, having just emerged from his office at the far end of the cavernous room. Fifties, gray-templed but trim, he wore a trademark open-necked white shirt and blue trousers--a touch of the yachtsman, even ash.o.r.e. A former Vietnam fighter pilot, he had flown over from the company's head office in Arlington, Virginia two days ago--setting down the company's Gulfstream IV at Athens--to be on hand when the first vehicle, VX-1, went up. As he stalked up, he was his usual crabby self, seemingly never satisfied with anything that was going on.

She looked him over and stifled the horrible impulse she had sometimes to call him Alan. He was short-tempered, the way Alan Harris was, and he had the same curt voice. Otherwise, though, they were nothing alike.

The mind works in strange ways.

"Cyclops countdown is right on the money, Bill. to the second. Big Benny is humming, and coil temps are nominal. Georges says it's a go for sure this time. We're going to achieve the power levels needed to lase." (They had tried two preliminary power-ups previously, but the supercomputer had shut them down in the last hour of the countdown both times.) "Looks like tonight is the night we get lucky."

Georges LeFarge had served as her personal a.s.sistant throughout the project, even though he formally headed up the computer section. These days he was still slim, almost emaciated, with a scraggly beard he seemed to leave deliberately unkempt, just as he had at Cal Tech. Bates had bestowed on him the t.i.tle of Director of Computer Systems, which did not sit well with his leftist politics. His conscience wanted him to be a slave to the exploiting capitalists, not one of them. However, he always managed to cash his bonus checks. He had carried on a flirtation with Cally, sending messages back and forth on the Fujitsu's workstations, for the last two years. She had finally taken him up on it; and it was a bust all around. _C'est la vie_.