Free Worlds in Chaos by James P. Hogan Page B

about the expense. For the private sector the investment would be colossal, and the return on it just isn’t there. That’s why the space program was shifted to a lower gear in the first place.”
    Keene shook his head disbelievingly. “One day, none of that’s going to matter. This is something we can’t afford not to do. I mean, we’re not talking about selling laundry detergent here, Leo. Maybe we have to learn something from the Kronians. The know-how and the ability is there, and it’s something that needs to be done. So you forget all the shopkeeper economics, and you just do it.”
    “Logical enough, and eminently sensible,” Cavan agreed. “But the powers who run things here can’t think like that.”
    It didn’t need to be spelled out further. Keene stared at his glass and sighed. “So what’s the line going to be? The one we’ve been hearing for a while: The whole Kronian venture was ill-conceived from the start; imagining that a society could function viably at that kind of distance was ridiculous all along . . . ?”
    Cavan was already nodding. “And now they’re waking up to reality and finding themselves overextended,” he completed. “This story about supercomets and the end of the world is a concoction dreamed up to exploit the Athena event and milk support from Earth’s governments. That’s our line. And naturally the establishment’s scientific big guns will have their act coordinated to back it. We wouldn’t want to let down the people who ladle out the honors and write the checks, after all, now, would we?” Cavan spooned the last of his soup into his mouth—thin and straight, sparing on the lips—and watched, seemingly until Keene was just recovering sufficiently to tackle his food again. Then he added, “One of the big guns they’ll be wheeling up is a certain professor of astron-omy and faculty head at Yale, recently nominated for the presidency of the International Astronomical Union. I wouldn’t imagine he needs any introduction.”
    “You don’t mean Voler?”
    “I do, of course.”
    Keene’s fork dropped slowly back to his plate. For Herbert Voler was the paragon of perfection that his own former wife, Fey, had fled to and later married when Keene confounded her social ambitions by abandoning the prospect of scholastic accolades to return to the grubby world of engineering.
    “I’m not quite sure how that might be relevant at this stage,” Cavan confessed. “But conceivably the situation could take a turn whereby the social connection offers possibilities unavailable in the purely formal context. In any case, it was an option that would apply to nobody else, so my first thought was to approach you.”
    Keene made an inviting motion with his free hand. “Approach me for what, Leo? You still haven’t told me what this is all about.”
    “Let me first give you an idea of how they intend playing it,” Cavan suggested. “Then it will be clearer. The softening-up program to condition the public has already been going on for a while. Did you see your friend Voler on TV yesterday?”
    “No, I have been kind of busy, as you pointed out. What was this?”
    “He gave a talk at Columbia, ridiculing the claims about all those ancient records. . . . But it was planned months ago to coincide with the Kronians’ arrival.” Cavan produced a compad from his jacket pocket. “Let’s watch him.” He activated the unit, fiddled with commands to retrieve a stored playback from the net, then turned it the right way around for Keene to see and passed it across. Keene’s features remained neutral as he gazed at the familiar figure.
    Voler was fortyish, maybe—on the young side for the titles and credentials that he was able to brandish. He had a full head of black hair styled collar-length like a media celebrity, and a tanned complexion which with his pugnacious jaw emphasized a strong set of white teeth that his mobile features put to good effect, constantly splitting into