[Illustration: ILLUSTRATOR VARGA]
_To Amos Jordan, Secretary for Cislunar Navigation, no situation was
unsolvable. There were rules for everything, weren't there.... Except
maybe this thing ..._
"What's the matter, anyway?" Amos Jordan snapped at his assistant. "Is
everyone in the Senate losing their mind?"
"No more than usual," said Clements, the undersecretary. "It's just a
matter of sentiment."
"Sentiment?" Jordan poured himself a glass of lemonade. "What's
sentiment got to do with it? It's just a standard procedural problem."
"Well, not exactly," began Clements soothingly. "After all, now, '58
Beta was the first long-lived satellite ever launched, and the first
successful shot of the old Vanguard series. People are proud if it. It's
a sort of monument to our early efforts in astronautics."
* * * * *
Jordan sipped experimentally, adding a little sugar.
"But, Clem, the sky's full of the things," he complained. "There must be
a hundred fifty of them in orbit right now. They're a menace to
navigation. If this one's due to fall out, I say good riddance."
Clements spread his hands helplessly.
"I agree, chief. But, believe me, a lot of people have made up their
minds about this thing. Some want to let it burn up. Some want to
retrieve it and stash it in a museum. Either way it's a decision we're
not going to reach in this office."
Jordan tossed down the rest of his lemonade.
"I'd like to know why not," he snapped, almost bristling.
"Well, frankly this thing is moving pretty fast." Clements fished a
facsimile sheet out of his jacket pocket. "Everybody's getting into the
act." He handed the sheet across the desk. "Read this; it'll bring you
up to date."
Jordan stared at the sheet.
"_Senate Committee Probes Beta,_" ran the lead, followed by,
"_The Senate Advisory Committee for Astronautics began hearing
testimony this morning in an effort to determine the fate of
satellite '58 Beta. Mr. Claude Wamboldt, leader of the CCSB
(Citizens' Committee to Save Beta), testified that the cost of
retrieving Beta from orbit would be trivial compared to its value as
an object of precious historical significance. He suggested the
Smithsonian Institution as an appropriate site for the exhibit. At
the same time the incumbent Senator from Mr. Wamboldt's district
filed a bill in the Senate which would add a complete wing to the
Smithsonian to house this satellite and other similar historic
objects. In later testimony Mr. Orville Larkin, leader of the unnamed
committee representing those in opposition to the CCSB stated that
his group felt that to snatch Beta from orbit at this moment of its
greatest glory would be contrary to natural law and that he and his
supporters would never concede to any plan to save it._"
Jordan raised his head and stared over the fax sheet at Clements. "Am I
going out of my mind, or did this really happen?"
"It sure did ... and is," said Clements. "Later on, I am told, Wamboldt
threw a chair at Larkin, and the committee recessed after declaring both
men in contempt."
Jordan shook his head.
"Why didn't somebody tell me about this?"
"I sent you a ten page memo about it last week," objected Clements,
somewhat aggrieved. "Gave you the whole story with extrapolations."
"Memo! You know I never read memos! I ought to fire you ... I would if I
could ... you ... you 'appointee.'"
Clements shook his head warningly. "Better not, chief. You'll need me
for the briefing."
"Briefing? What briefing?"
"_The_ briefing. You're scheduled to testify before the committee
tomorrow afternoon at three."
* * * * *
_Senator Darius:_ Mr. Jordan, will you please state whether or not there
is a satellite body known as '58 Beta?
_Mr. Jordan:_ Yes, sir, there is.
_Senator D:_ Will you describe its present orbit?
_Mr. J:_ I'd be glad to, Senator. It now has a perigee slightly below
110 miles and an apogee of about 400 miles. The last perigee occurred
400 miles last of the Seychelles Islands about 35 minutes ago. Roughly
its present position is about 250 miles above Manus Island.
_Senator D:_ When do you expect it to enter the atmosphere for the final
plunge to its death?
_Mr. J:_ (bridling) Well, Senator, we in the Secretariat don't usually
refer to such an occurrence in exactly those terms. It's really just a
problem in celestial mechanics to us, and ...
_Senator D:_ (glaring) Your administrative assistant testified a few
moments ago, sir, that '58 Beta has had a life of 185 years. Will you
kindly explain to the committee how anything which has had a life can
end in anything but death?
_Mr. J:_ I ... uh ... I believe I appreciate your point of view,
Senator. '58 Beta experiences a very steep re-entry at each perigee.
According to our computers it will disintegrate on the 82nd or 83rd
revolution following that of 2:48 Greenwich crossing this afternoon.
_Senator D:_ Tell us, Mr. Jordan ... how many revolutions about the
Mother Planet has '58 Beta made since its launching?
_Mr. J:_ (hastily working his slide rule) Upwards of eight hundred
thousand, I should say. I can provide you with an exact figure if you
wish.
_Senator D:_ That won't be necessary, Mr. Jordan. Eight hundred
thousand, give or take a few paltry thousand, is close enough. Eight
hundred thousand endless, lonely revolutions about an unthinking,
uncaring, ungrateful world is quite enough. Quite enough, Mr. Jordan.
Now sir; (squinting over his glasses) what do you think is the proper
action to be taken in the matter of retrieving this historic satellite
from its orbit so that it may be preserved as a living memorial to the
gallant efforts of those early pioneers ... those brave and intrepid men
of Cape Canaveral ... to stand forevermore as a beacon and a challenge
to our school children, to our students, our aspirants for candidacy to
the Space Academy and to our citizens for all time to come?
_Mr. J:_ Nothing, Senator.
_Senator D:_ (aghast) Am I to understand, Mr. Jordan, that you are
suggesting that this symbol, this quintessence of an historic and
magnificent era in mankind's history ... this unique and precious object
... should be allowed to destroy itself and be lost forever?
_Mr. J:_ (squirming) Senator, there are dozens of those things up there.
Every year one or two burns up. They have no usefulness. They're a
menace to navigation. I ...
_Senator D:_ (interrupting loudly) Mr. Jordan, what was the date of your
appointment to your present position?
_Mr. J:_ April 11, 2138.
_Senator D:_ Do you consider yourself fully qualified to hold this
august position?
_Mr. J:_ (tight lipped) Senator, I am a graduate of the Administrative
Academy, the Logistics Staff School, and I have 31 years seniority in my
department. Furthermore ...
_Senator D:_ (banging his gavel) Mr. Jordan, please! Try to remember
where you are! We had enough trouble yesterday with witnesses before
this committee. There will be no more of it. And Mr. Jordan, while it
may be true that your technical qualifications for serving in your
present position may be adequate, it is clear to me and, I am sure,
apparent to other members of this committee that your feeling for
history and the relation of this problem to the destiny of the human
race leave much to be desired. And, Mr. Jordan, may I emphasize ...
_these_ are the things that count in the long, long haul!
* * * * *
Jordan sat limply at his desk, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
"It's unbelievable," he muttered dully. "Where did this man Darius come
from?"
"It doesn't matter much," Clements answered unsympathetically. "It's
where he is now that counts."
Jordan shook his head.
"There has to be a way out. A clean, quick way out."
After a moment's thought Clements said, "Isn't there a regulation about
orbital debris?"
Jordan nodded dully. "Someplace. Number 710.1, I think. Hasn't been
invoked in years. Once they stopped using chemical fuels, we stopped
having wrecks."
"Still," Clements went on more eagerly, "Beta's really a piece of
debris, isn't it? It's not working or transmitting or whatever it was
supposed to do, is it?"
"No." Jordan shrugged impatiently. "But, good grief, this thing isn't
debris. Debris is ... is big _chunks_ of things; broken up space
stations, or ... or nuclear engines and things like that."
"Hell, no, chief," yelled Clements, jumping to his feet. "This is
debris, pure and simple. That's your answer!"
Jordan's eyes slowly brightened.
"Clem, maybe you're right. Regulation 710.1 says that any orbital debris
constituting a demonstrable menace to navigation may be destroyed at the
discretion of this office." He brushed his hands together with finality.
"That should do it."
Suddenly Clements' enthusiasm degenerated to a faint smile.
"I've just got to wondering, chief. Do we dare go right ahead with
this?"
Amos Jordan's eyes took on a piercing glitter of command.
"This is our job, Clements. We should have done it long ago. Get
Statistical and have them find out how much boogie time is consumed in
plugging that silly thing into every takeoff problem. Multiply that by
all the launch stations. Convert it into man-hours per year and make
that into a dollar figure. That always scares the wits out a
Congressman. They'll knuckle under...."
He paused and cocked an ear toward the door. A faint hubbub was now
percolating through from the receptionist's lobby. It grew louder.
Suddenly the door opened, letting in a roaring babble, as Geraldine ...
the usually poker-faced secretary ... leaped through and slammed it shut
again. Her eyes, behind their thick lenses, were round and a little
wild.
"It's General Criswell and Admiral Flack," she panted. "They insist on
seeing you." She gasped for breath and added, as though she could not
quite believe her own words, "And ... and ... oh, Mr. Jordan; they're
_quarreling_!"
Jordan said, "Quarreling? Two staff men quarreling?" He looked
uncertainly at Clements. "I thought there was a regulation against
that?"
Clements gave a palms up shrug.
"Well, there is," snapped Jordan. "Has something to do with interservice
unity or something ... been on the books for years. Send them in,
Gerry."
Tentatively she opened the door and almost had time to gesture before
being bowled over by the visitors.
* * * * *
Admiral Flack had the advantage of volume, and Jordan got his message
first.
"Jordan," he roared in true bullhorn style, "I want to make one thing
clear! '58 Beta was Navy through and through! Start to finish! She's got
salt water on her, and she's going to be pulled out of orbit and that's
that!"
"Navy through and through, hell!" sneered General Criswell. "A fine
botch you made of it, too! How many times did you try before you slung
that thing up there? How many goofs were there afterward? The Dodgers
are in last place, and they've got five pitchers who could have done it
without warming up."
"Watch your mouth, Criswell," advised Admiral Flack, tightlipped.
"There's considerable tonnage of Air Force hardware under water, too.
Maybe the Russians beat us, and maybe von Braun got lucky, but _ours_ is
_still there_, Mac! Just remember that!"
"You people have fetishes," stormed the General. "You even keep
Admirals' hats and hang them on pegs. Who wants your hat, you pack rat?
Where would we ever keep all the junk you people want to save?" He
shuddered. "Good God! Hats!"
"That's ... just ... about ... all ... I'm ... going ... to ... take,"
Admiral Flack said, spelling out the entire sentence. He stared
furiously at the General. "Don't think we don't know that once '58 Beta
is down it'll be your precious damned '61 Epsilon that's in the oldest
orbit. I'll bet you fly boys will break your silly backs trying to
recover that one when its time comes."