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 Outdated engineering camouflaged in futuristic-looking shells was hyped as a wonder of the age, the best that taxpayers’ money could buy.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 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.