A Shift in Priorities - Sequel

[rast]

There are two ways to get enough. One is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less.
(G. K. Chesterton)

Tom Keller Junior was the boss now. His dad had died unexpectedly – the death of a farmer, riding on a giant tractor, in the fields, killed by a coronary. Nobody else had been around to help him. Wally had found him when arriving with the sack lunch. – The funeral had been glorious, of course. Cortege for the famous wheat baron had been an obligation for everybody and his dog. The state of Durango had proclaimed official mourning. And President Cárdenas had sent a letter of condolence and a funeral wreath.

The problem was that the new boss was – most probably – mentally deranged. The Keller family had never acknowledged the fact, but to Moses, Abe and Wally, the aged black farm hands, it had been obvious ever since the young man had returned from a business trip to Chicago and Moline. Something strange must have happened up north, but one couldn’t tell what. Tom J wouldn’t tell – and the family wouldn’t ask. His wife, Jimena, had been horrified by the stranger in her bed, but eventually had resigned herself to accept it. – What other alternative did she have?

What was going to happen now? Tom J wasn’t rational – neither in his actions nor in his sentiments. He owned everything – as far as the eye could see and beyond. He was rich. And he was happy. The old Tom J had been unhappy but rational. The new one was happy but irrational. – Well, one was going to see. Los Alamitos was a universe of its own. Until these days, the deceased had set the agenda. Now, it was his son’s turn.

Wheat was in great demand. The US was expanding to the north, where wheat wouldn’t grow – while the traditional wheat fields of the Great Plains had turned waste. The Kellers knew this from dire experience. One could earn another fortune by satisfying the North American demand. – But was Tom J at all interested in banking up more riches? Or would he rather squander the family fortune for silly pleasures?

 

[Ciryatur]

Calling it now... Mexican space program

 

[rast]

I think you’ve got something there, but I’ll wait outside until you clean it up.
(Groucho Marx)

Professor Ramsauer was out, attending an important congress in Hamburg. And Friedhelm Wiegand was screwing Beate, the new biochemical assistant. She was a strapping brunette who had made it obvious that she didn’t mind a nookie with Friedhelm. Okay, she had already spread her legs for the Professor, but Friedhelm didn’t mind at all. She seemed to be a natural – and evidently was enjoying the fling.

It was a welcome diversion. Routine work was dreary. You had the station – and SMH Elisabeth Christine in addition, two places filled with dangerous microorganisms to worry about. The professor was just bringing along additional stuff, gathered all over England. And Friedhelm had to take care that nothing dreadful happened. The staff was extremely careful, sure, but their overview was limited. It was Friedhelm’s job to coordinate their activities.

There was no progress in combating BAMS. The tiny critters were still resisting all attempts to disarm them. The proficient Negroes were long gone – and the professor would rather stroll about and collect strange stuff than frustrate himself by fighting this sturdy enemy. – A new outbreak might occur at every moment. The lady chancellor had not restored the naval blockade. However, negotiations had begun to arrive at a joint surveillance of the British Isles.

Germany was offering observation satellites and aerial reconnaissance based on Ireland and the Isle of Sheppey – if Denmark and Norway accepted to provide the naval forces. The haggling had just started. But the area to be monitored was huge; a small looters’ vessel – or even a plane – might always come through. Well, one infected dude was enough to start another epidemic.

But there was no use in biting one’s nails. Beate was suggesting another round. That was far more delectable than musing about BAMS…

 

[rast]

Most people think that faith means believing something; oftener it means trying something, giving it a chance to prove itself.
(Henry Ford)

Everything was ready. Countdown was running. Igniting the little sun was an unbelievable process – from fission to fusion in a jiffy. A lot could go wrong. Protection was scant – because a true failure would annihilate you in a jiffy. Once the little sun was on, Professor Fuchs had to activate the feeding field. He said that should pose no problem; the little sun had a built-in tolerance of five seconds.

The trigger kit was small, compared to the ones used for the Weizsäcker Suns. One had learnt a lot from these two events, said the professor. And the Phönix would have to carry several of them; hence size mattered. Okay, their burning time was much reduced; therefore the feeding field had to chime in straight away.

One was used to fission events; the NPPs were running on them all the time. But fusion was something else entirely. The 0.2 – or sometimes 0.1 only – KT of an NPP bomb were no big affair. The pusher plate was solid enough to catch all effects. But a little sun? It could melt away the pusher plate in no time… Or the test rig…

Jochen Zeislitz was tense. He was sitting in the pilot’s seat, fully strapped and ready for action – although the test rig was not supposed to move. One was about to test whether the feeding field sufficed for keeping the little sun alive. If that worked, one would activate the holding field – but not for flying away, only for checking the interference problem.

But you never knew… Okay, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one – ignition!

 

[rast]

Wonder is the seed of knowledge.
(Francis Bacon)

Aye, the little sun was burning. Jochen Zeislitz was squinting in its bright shine. He was surprised; there had been no concussions, no impulse. This was quite different from how an NPP worked. But okay, it was logical: the holding field didn’t box the little sun yet. The thing was just shining along. Professor Fuchs, strapped down in the seat beside him, had just activated the feeding field – and was now staring at the gauges.

“Yeah, it’s working; protons are being sucked in.”
Alright… And now we wait and watch the sun shining…
But it didn’t last long.
“Less protons… The field is reaping them in faster than they migrate naturally. Either we get moving – or the sun will die down.”
“Then let’s hit the road!”

It was Jochen’s job to activate the holding field. And buzz… interference… and tilt… no fields.
“Fudge! That shouldn’t happen.” lamented the professor.
But the little sun was dying.
“Okay, we’re still alive. No need to worry. Let’s analyse the data and find out what went wrong. How many trigger kits does Dora carry?”

 

[rast]

It appears evidently from experience, that man is, of all sorts of luggage, the most difficult to be transported.
(Adam Smith)

Good grief, testing the test rig seemed to be a complicated business. Jochen said it might take months until the gizmo flew. The professor was struggling valiantly, but the cussedness of the inanimate was very strong this time, perhaps too strong. The whole matter was mould-breaking – or rather was going to be, in case it should ever work…

Helga von Tschirschwitz had decided that keeping a rough diary ought to be useful, just to keep track of events. You had the decision to built Arx and Phönix. Next, you had Professor Fuchs wanting a test rig to prove his scientific theories concerning the starship’s drive. Then, you had the clever idea to construct Arx near Earth, followed by the desertion of many colonists suddenly realising they were going to be old farts at the time Arx was going to take course to the Jupiter system.

And now you had the test rig refusing to do what it was supposed to do. The whole conception of sending Germans to the stars seemed to implode. – Well, she couldn’t blame the would-be colonists. Volunteering as a young person in the twenties was one thing. Being told that you are going to be in your forties when the adventure eventually starts should be a good reason to think twice. Okay, it did not yet jeopardise Arx; the station could easily be reduced in size.

But the industry needed planning security. You couldn’t haphazardly change the figures every fortnight. A reliable political decision was needed. Helga knew that Director Kammler was working on it. However, the lady chancellor wouldn’t decide without hard figures. She had tasked Kammler to establish how many colonists really were going to opt for living on Arx. Hence, all those who had volunteered had to be asked. And one had to find out how many new colonists might be recruited in the coming decade.

That was no mean task, because the woman in the Wilhelmstraße wouldn’t accept fake figures. She knew the trade. But the glory time of space yearning was over; people were arranging their lives down here. The future seemed bright – and Jupiter was very far away. Okay, one was going to see. Arx was an interesting project, but the really fascinating one was Phönix. And Phönix would be manned by RRA personnel, no laymen required.

But only if the professor managed to get the test rig do what it ought to do…

 

[Mayukh]

It appears evidently from experience, that man is, of all sorts of luggage, the most difficult to be transported.
(Adam Smith)

Good grief, testing the test rig seemed to be a complicated business. Jochen said it might take months until the gizmo flew. The professor was struggling valiantly, but the cussedness of the inanimate was very strong this time, perhaps too strong. The whole matter was mould-breaking – or rather was going to be, in case it should ever work…

Helga von Tschirschwitz had decided that keeping a rough diary ought to be useful, just to keep track of events. You had the decision to built Arx and Phönix. Next, you had Professor Fuchs wanting a test rig to prove his scientific theories concerning the starship’s drive. Then, you had the clever idea to construct Arx near Earth, followed by the desertion of many colonists suddenly realising they were going to be old farts at the time Arx was going to take course to the Jupiter system.

And now you had the test rig refusing to do what it was supposed to do. The whole conception of sending Germans to the stars seemed to implode. – Well, she couldn’t blame the would-be colonists. Volunteering as a young person in the twenties was one thing. Being told that you are going to be in your forties when the adventure eventually starts should be a good reason to think twice. Okay, it did not yet jeopardise Arx; the station could easily be reduced in size.

But the industry needed planning security. You couldn’t haphazardly change the figures every fortnight. A reliable political decision was needed. Helga knew that Director Kammler was working on it. However, the lady chancellor wouldn’t decide without hard figures. She had tasked Kammler to establish how many colonists really were going to opt for living on Arx. Hence, all those who had volunteered had to be asked. And one had to find out how many new colonists might be recruited in the coming decade.

That was no mean task, because the woman in the Wilhelmstraße wouldn’t accept fake figures. She knew the trade. But the glory time of space yearning was over; people were arranging their lives down here. The future seemed bright – and Jupiter was very far away. Okay, one was going to see. Arx was an interesting project, but the really fascinating one was Phönix. And Phönix would be manned by RRA personnel, no laymen required.

But only if the professor managed to get the test rig do what it ought to do…

And that ends the space race in Germany.

 

[rast]

Logic will get you from A to Z; imagination will get you everywhere.
(Albert von Einstein)

There was no mission. The Feuerdrache was sitting in its berth, as were SMS Antje and SMS Carla. SMS Dora was in orbit, supporting the test rig operation. SMS Bertha was on the Moon, bringing supplies and conducting shift change, after having already done the same job at Himmelsschmiede. The dinghy pilots had been sent away; they were practising with Rumpler Donnervögel – cruising wildly above England and the North Sea.

The captains of the Feuerdrache, Kapitän von Reventlow, SMS Antje, Oberst Weller, and SMS Carla, Oberst von dem Busche, had convened in the officers’ mess. The captains’ table was a fixture, although regular meetings of all captains were hardly ever taking place. However, a special room had been set aside for the purpose. Dining together, the captains were discussing recent developments.

The test rig was of paramount interest, of course. Would there be a true interstellar spacecraft? Or would taming the little suns prove impossible? – Weller, the army guy, thought fusion drive was an elegant idea, but it was also possible to do it with NPP. The Phönix, as planned, was going to be a truly huge vessel. An NPP of the same size could easily carry sufficient nukes for outward and return journey – plus ample margin for manoeuvring in the Alpha Centauri system.

Yeah, that was correct, agreed von dem Busche, the air force guy. He also had calculated it. There was no reason to despond; NPP could do it. Fusion drive was ideal for very long voyages. But for travelling to Alpha Centauri – or even to Sirius – NPP would be quite satisfactory. One would need larger nukes perhaps, as not to squander too many small ones. And with Himmelsschmiede operational, forging a really large pusher plate in space ought to be possible.

Johann von Reventlow wasn’t surprised. He too had studied the figures. The Phönix had been designed to travel at 0.1 c; the Feuerdrache could – in theory – attain this speed as well. And once the desired velocity had been gained, the craft would dart ahead without any need for further acceleration. The current NPPs were far too small for such a venture, but a huge craft, constructed with support of Himmelsschmiede, could indeed replace the Phönix. Yeah, travelling to the stars was going to be possible, even if Professor Fuchs botched fusion drive.

 

[rast]

Subsistence increases only in an arithmetical ration.
(Thomas R. Malthus)

The village was the core of Russian culture. But this core had changed a lot. In the olden days, the villagers had been farmers or farm hands, all of them, often grinding poor. Today, a village had three farms – on average, and the farmers were rich – or at least they appeared to be wealthy men.

Well, it wasn’t that simple. Ivan Klimentovich Barkashov, farmer at Merlinovka near Tambov, could tell. It was true, the farm looked impressive, the machinery was terrific. But all this was owned by the banks. And he – and his family – was grafting to pay the interest.

Okay, he owned the land. Over the years, the family – his grandpa, his father, he – had bought it from those farmers dropping by the wayside. It was a hard business. You had to keep the ball rolling persistently. And you had to invest in new stuff all the time.

That was what made you the churl of the banks. But not modernising meant surrendering. Granted, one didn’t live in want; the standard of living on the farm was good – even prosperous townspeople would admit this. However, as long as you were in debt you weren’t really rich.

Yeah, he never would be a rich man – according to that rule. Hard luck… But one managed… Indeed, in the olden days, one farmer had fed five persons, including himself. Today, he alone was feeding fifty. And there was no end to it. Vitaly, his eldest and heir, might one day feed one hundred people.

Science and technology were working hard to improve farming. One had crops that grew well under conditions where previously only grass and weeds had been growing. And husbandry had also improved enormously. It was not just artificial fertiliser that helped push the harvests. There were pesticides and herbicides as well.

The stuff did not come for free either. Hence, the claims that the farmers were polluting the environment were bullshit. You never would squander such precious agents. – In fact, Ivan had voted for the Malotoksichni, the Environmentalists, in the recent election; the Krestyánina Pártiya, the Farmers’ Party, were too old-fangled.

 

[rast]

Scientists are the destroyers of myths and sometimes the myths they destroy are their own.
(Charles Darwin)

The professor and the throng of engineers at his coat tails had analysed the data collected in the recent experiment with the little sun. Evidently, the little beast had affected and offset the frequencies. The professor had mumbled under his breath and had calculated backwards and forwards. In the meanwhile, the SMS Dora kosmonauts had been busy installing a new trigger kit.

One was ready for the second run – in principle. But the professor wasn’t satisfied yet. He had – once again – started crunching numbers. Jochen Zeislitz, strapped onto the pilot’s seat, could only roll his eyes. Okay, he was only the jockey; nothing much seemed to have changed – despite his rank.

Okay, the professor was nodding his approval. Countdown could begin. SMS Dora signalled readiness. And there you go…

It ran just like the first time: interference – buzz – tilt. Fudge! – The professor was aghast. Jochen was frustrated. But alright: data analysis, what else?

 

[rast]

Whenever the cause of the people is entrusted to professors, it is lost.
(Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov aka Lenin)

It seemed the Nyemtsi were having trouble with their fusion drive test device. But they were proving to be very proficient in igniting artificial little suns. NASA were monitoring the process very closely. One couldn’t decode communications, however what was going on was quite obvious. The little suns were dying quickly – and the test vehicle didn’t move.

The scientists said it ought to be a problem with the magnetic fields. But that was an area where one hadn’t gathered much expertise yet. – Khoroshó, the Nyemtsi neither, one was tempted to observe. Might it be that they were punching above their weight?

Professor Georgy N. Flyorov, who had looked deeper into the magnetic field problem already, thought they were checking out how to calibrate multiple fields under the influence of the little suns. The latter produced magnetic waves as well. – That made calibration a hazard.

Indeed, the little suns should each generate slightly different wave patterns. That would force Professor Fuchs to find a way how to integrate a whole batch of random waves into his concert of frequencies. But the man undoubtedly was a genius; he might be capable of pulling a blinder.

 

[rast]

There is safety in small beginnings and there is unlimited capital in the experience gained by growing.
(Henry Ford)

The foreign workers were leaving; not for home, but for France. They – or at least one of them – had contacted a French agency. And the Kingdom of France always happened to be keen to engage more working hands. In fact, one had to wonder whether France still was the land of the French – or had become a land of migrants.

But that was the problem of the French; Nieuw Hoogeveen had to find a way how to operate economically without the aliens. Anne Robbins had looked around: greenhouse economy was also found in the Heymshtot. However, they were handling the business quite conventionally.

Yeah, there was an adequate number of cheap working hands – either coming from Poland, Lithuania or Russia. Hence, the Yids were not trying to optimise their procedures. One would have to do it by oneself. Okay, the Dutch were famous for their ability to economise.

Perhaps she should just let them work it out; her American instincts were not applicable in this situation. The Dutch, she had learnt, were surprisingly direct in such affairs – and utterly ruthless. When there were no labourers available, they surely would find another way to get the work done.

The conventional patch wouldn’t do – too much manual labour involved. But okay, she would keep calm and let the natives find a solution. The Moffen were automising their work routine – in order to save labourers. But you couldn’t let rough machines handle little saplings…

Anne was at a loss. How could it be done? – But trust the Dutch to find a way to make money…

 

[rast]

Not believing in force is the same as not believing in gravity.
(Lev Davidovich Bronstein aka Leon Trotsky)

Himmelsschmiede was a huge leap forward. Colonel Peter Hoppe, the station commander, was an old hand. He had been on the Moon before NPP, as crew member on Raumkobold-33 and as mission commander of Raumkobold-35. A lot had changed since then – thank goodness. Artificial gravity – well, centrifugal force – was an enormous boon.

Right now, the station was on routine duty – communications and surveillance. The future Arx workers were trained at Raumkolonie. For Arx construction, Himmelsschmiede was earmarked to serve as base camp. But that was still a long way off. At first a new decision about the size of the Jupiter colony had to be taken.

Hoppe knew that the space hype was over – and that many volunteers were trying to back out. Hence, building a ginormous colony for 40,000 people was perhaps no longer a good plan. Well, one was going to see. The Kastenmüller staff had designed Arx as modular construction system. Reducing it in size should pose no major problem.

Maybe one ought to open Himmelsschmiede for tourists. The station had sufficient capacity to host a bunch of twenty or thirty of them at a time. That would accustom ordinary folks to sojourning in space. With centrifugal force available it was not rocket science; every healthy person could do it. He should talk with Helga von Tschirschwitz about this idea…

The test rig and SMS Dora were still circling in orbit – without any action – except occasionally igniting a little sun without further effect. They were burning marks like fury over there. These fusion trigger kits were truly expensive. Hoppe knew about the bugs they were fighting. Jochen, his Raumkobold-33 buddy, was keeping him informed. But this magnetic field business was far beyond his horizon.

Jochen was keen to fly to the stars, to Alpha Centauri. Hoppe had pondered the issue. Forty-two years of inactivity, cooped up in a tin can… Only to get there… No, thank you. Four years out to Neptune or Pluto would still be okay; anything more would be too much.