* * * * *
That, as we reconstructed it afterwards, is how the SV-1 affair began.
It was pure luck, I suppose, that Gascoigne sent his message direct
to us. Civilian Intelligence Group is rarely called into an emergency
when the emergency is just being born. Usually Washington tries to do
the bailing job first. Then, when Washington discovers that the boat is
still sinking, it passes the bailing can to us--usually with a demand
that we transform it into a centrifugal pump, on the double.
We don't mind. Washington's failure to develop a government department
similar in function to CIG is the reason why we're in business. The
profits, of course, go to Affiliated Enterprises, Inc., the loose
corporation of universities and industries which put up the money to
build ULTIMAC--and ULTIMAC is, in turn, the reason why Washington comes
running to CIG so often.
This time, however, it did not look like the big computer was going
to be of much use to us. I said as much to Joan Hadamard, our social
sciences division chief, when I handed her the message.
"Um," she said. "_Personnel_ trouble? What does he mean? He hasn't got
any personnel on that station."
This was no news to me. CIG provided the figures that got the SV-1 into
its orbit in the first place, and it was on our advice that it carried
only one man. The crew of a space vessel either has to be large or it
has to be a lone man; there is no intermediate choice. And SV-1 wasn't
big enough to carry a large crew--not to carry them and keep the men
from flying at each other's throats sooner or later, that is.
"He means himself," I said. "That's why I don't think this is a job
for the computer. It's going to have to be played person-to-person.
It's my bet that the man's responsibility-happy; that danger was always
implicit in the one-man recommendation."
"The only decent solution is a full complement," Joan agreed. "Once the
Pentagon can get enough money from Congress to build a big station."
"What puzzles me is, why did he call us instead of his superiors?"
"That's easy. We process his figures. He trusts us. The Pentagon thinks
we're infallible, and he's caught the disease from them."
"That's bad," I said.
"I've never denied it."
"No, what I mean is that it's bad that he called us instead of going
through channels. It means that the emergency is at least as bad as he
says it is."
I thought about it another precious moment longer while Joan did some
quick dialing. As everybody on Earth--with the possible exception of
a few Tibetans--already knew, the man who rode SV-1 rode with three
hydrogen bombs immediately under his feet--bombs which he could drop
with great precision on any spot on the Earth. Gascoigne was, in
effect, the sum total of American foreign policy; he might as well have
had "Spatial Supremacy" stamped on his forehead.
"What does the Air Force say?" I asked Joan as she hung up.
"They say they're a little worried about Gascoigne. He's a very stable
man, but they had to let him run a month over his normal replacement
time--why, they don't explain. He's been turning in badly garbled
reports over the last week. They're thinking about giving him a
dressing down."
"Thinking! They'd better be careful with that stuff, or they'll hurt
themselves. Joan, somebody's going to have to go up there. I'll arrange
fast transportation, and tell Gascoigne that help is coming. Who should
go?"
"I don't have a recommendation," Joan said. "Better ask the computer."