Free Judgment Day by James F. David Page B

turned back to his oscilloscope. The man working with Ira looked embarrassed and stepped forward, extending his hand. He was young, halfway to bald, cherubic-looking with red round cheeks and the smile of a child.
    "I'm John," he said. "Yovi have to excuse Ira, he's personality challenged. You may not believe this but that's the nicest he's been to someone since I've known him."
    "How long has that been?"
    "Ten years, but it seems like a decade."
    Christy smiled. John was goofy, but likable.
    "John, are you working or not?" Ira asked gruffly.
    Making a face, John silently mimicked Ira's words, then said, "Yes, boss. Nice meeting you, Christy, but if I don't get back to work Ira will send me to bed without my supper."
    "Come on, Christy," Mark said. "You can see the inside."
    Following Mark up a stepladder they climbed onto the trailer. Rungs were welded into the side of the sphere and Mark stepped aside so she could climb. Inside was a young woman sitting cross-legged in the bottom, a circuit board on her stomach—she was very pregnant. She looked up and smiled.
    "Hello, Reverend Maitland. I'm Shelly. Its pretty amazing, isn't it?"
    Christy looked around the interior. It was roomier than it appeared from the outside, and there were two chairs, one in front of the other. Most of the interior surface of the sphere was covered with equipment and devices she could not identify. Small monitors filled the wall in front of the lead chair, and another set sat in a console in front of the second. Each station had a keyboard and joystick.
    "It's tightly packed in here because there's three of every system," Shelly said. "It's set up for two pilots now, but we can squeeze another person in if we want. The other capsule is identical."
    "What makes it fly?"
    Shelly blushed, then she said, "I can't tell you that."
    Mark leaned over next to Christy, his cheek almost touching hers.
    "It's not that we don't trust you, Christy, but this technology wasn't meant for the world."
    Disconcerted by Mark's closeness, Christy pulled out and climbed down the ladder, Mark following.
    "You can't keep a monopoly on this technology forever," Christy said. "If it's been discovered once, it can be discovered again."
    "It was given to us by God. If He wants to give it to someone else, He can."
    "You could patent your technology."
    "Only if we provide details on how it works. We're better protected this way."
    Suddenly Floyd shouted from the far side of the work floor, out of breath from excitement.
    "Something's happened!" Floyd shouted. "You've got to see this!"
    Floyd disappeared and others in the hangar quickly followed him. Christy trailed, wondering what could be more exciting than what she had witnessed in the last two days.

CHAPTER 10 THE STORY
    Experiments with the X-15 showed a single stage reusable space plane was feasible. However, the race to the moon diverted resources to disposable space hardware. While we won the race to the moon, we delayed development of the technology necessary to make access to space affordable.
    — ALTERNATE PATHWAYS TO SPACE , EDWARD NORTON
    LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
    N ot since the last earthquake in California had Roland seen a studio this busy. From the technicians to the on-air talent there was a sense of importance. This wasn't just television, this was "news," and these were the people who determined what the world needed to know. Writers sifted through bits and pieces of information, carefully selecting adjectives to create copy with "punch," then fed the words to the mouths of the "talent" who further modified it with the inflection they gave the words. Simultaneously, editors cut and rearranged videotape to tell the story visually, putting their own unique spin on events. In the control room, where Roland watched, producers made the final decisions about sequence, emphasis, and juxt a position of video, copy, and talent, and this is what the world was fed.
    Roland noted parallels with his own newsroom. At their