Skyfall

“Negative. The atmosphere interferes, the sun doesn't shine at night so the supply isn't continuous, construction is expensive, a number of things make it difficult. It should be done, yes, but it can never equal the size and sheer efficiency of Prometheus. Eventually Prometheus will supply all the world's power needs, supply free power forever. That's what we plan.”

“How?”

“Look outside the window. The largest spaceship ever to be launched. The first of fifty. This is a big and overpopulated world we live on and it needs a lot of power. Fifty shiploads for this project, then who knows how many after that.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“It is,” Patrick said. “But once launched the project will be self-sustaining. The electricity will be sold at a rate of two and a half cents a kilowatt hour — which will be enough to finance more launchings and generators. Once the payload is in orbit the generation of electricity is simplicity itself. The biggest part of our payload is the same kind of plastic you wrap around leftovers when you put them in the refrigerator. Since there's no gravity in orbit, no friction from the atmosphere either, this very thin plastic can be spread out to cover square miles of space. It's coated with aluminum so it acts like a big mirror to reflect sunlight to a focus where it will heat a fluid that will, in turn, drive a turbine that will generate electricity. Simple.”

“Very simple. But you haven't told me how the electricity gets back to Earth. Isn't this where the death ray bit comes in?”

Patrick smiled. “The old rumors are the hardest to kill. Any kind of radiation can be called a death ray — but only if it's strong enough and concentrated enough. A light bulb will warm your hand, but stand in front of a military searchlight and you'll be fried. If you've a small boat you can get a radar set that will help you find your way. Yet if you could manage to get at the focus of a big search radar you would find yourself cooked, coagulated like a hard-boiled egg. Degree and concentration. Once the electricity has been generated in space it will be converted to radio waves, low density microwaves, and beamed back to Earth. The double directional aerial will beam to a receiver in Siberia and another in the State of Washington. The amount Russia receives will supply most of her Siberian needs. What we get will supply the five western states. Free power from space.”

“Sounds okay but I hate to leave the death ray so quickly. It seems to me that the amount of power to do all that, even in the form of radio waves, might be a little strong when it hits the Earth?”

“Absolutely correct. Firstly, the radio beam is locked onto the receiver and is self-correcting. Secondly, if despite this the beam should waver too far it will be automatically shut off. The theory suggests that the beam of radio waves will not be strong enough to cause damage on Earth, but as a further protection the receiver will be situated in the mountains, miles from the nearest habitation.”

Redditch reached out and snapped off the tape recorder.

“That makes sense — and it seems to wrap it up. Thank you for your time. I'm going to run, there's a plane I can make.”

There were polite good-byes and the door closed behind the reporter.

“Now I can have that drink,” Flax said, heaving himself up to the bar. “I was afraid to even look at booze with that son-of-a-bitch reporter here. You want a refill, Coretta?”

“Yes please.” She sat, poised and at ease, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Patrick poured another drink for himself and wondered how she could remain so calm.

“You're just out of Houston,” he said. “Hear anything more about Doc Kennelly?”

“Just what you probably know. The operation was successful and prognosis fine.”

“Quite a coincidence, wasn't it?”

“What was a coincidence?”

“His getting sick at this time. And whatever happened to his backup, Feinberg? Wasn't a Jew ethnic enough for Prometheus…”

“Patrick,” Flax broke in. “Why don't you just shut up and let Coretta get some rest, she must have had a long day.”

“No, let him talk, Flax. Let us get this out in the open. I have no idea of what happened to Dr. Feinberg. No one bothered to tell me. I was just started on a hush-hush space orientation program about seven weeks ago. Centrifuge, free fall in the plane, all the rest. Just two days ago I was told I was going on Prometheus. That's all I know.”

Patrick laughed without humor. “That's all we know too — Seven weeks! That bastard Bandin has been planning this all along. I wonder if Doc really had a hot appendix. They could have faked that too — “

“That's enough!” Flax said, heaving his bulk forward between them. “Get to your quarters, Patrick. You've had a lot to drink, go sleep it off.”