“Sir, for the record, it says here in the program bio that your full name is Michael Charles Robertson,” a British correspondent spoke up. “Would that be accurate?”
This drew a suspicious frown from Robertson. “Um, yes. But I think they’ve turned some of my work history around.”
“Just to follow up, Professor. I heard that your university considered shipping you off to the military. And seeing that your NASA is a taxpayer-funded body, can you be more specific about similar unmanned drone venues and projects? And was it also a coincidence, sir, that your drone’s claim to fame, this MCR apparatus, carries your initials?”
Robertson smiled slightly, his ego exposed. He knew when he coined the term for the muscle technology that he might pay a price. He spotted the reporter’s ID. Arrogant BBC.
“Caltech’s Microbat team built the first battery-powered, flapping wing, micro-aerial vehicle small enough to fit in the palm of your hand,” Robertson said. “Then there’s Berkeley’s micro-mechanical flying insect, a ten-millimeter device capable of autonomous, programmed flight just like true flies.
“For years the Massachusetts Institute of Technology tried to combine the flight mechanics of insects with neurobiology, structural engineering, and aerodynamics. It’s a difficult challenge. Even the most brilliant scientists are learning that it’s one thing to build an airplane and quite another to build a bird.
“Work on unmanned drone technologies is exploding all over the world. The US Naval Research Laboratory just announced that their fuel cell — powered Ion Tiger unmanned aerial vehicle flew for forty-eight hours using liquid hydrogen fuel in a new cryogenic fuel storage tank and delivery system.”
Robertson poured a glass of water. “No one is shipping us anywhere near the military. In fact, it’s just the opposite. We’re completely separate from the research groups that traditionally test unmanned drones out of Fort Benning. And we’re not part of robotics either, which is another huge technology sector. Those folks are developing machines to help medical patients with caregiving tasks such as housework, feeding, and walking.
“Quite frankly, I believe that Georgia Tech doesn’t know where to put us. Right now, we’re off-campus at the Technology Square Research Building in downtown Atlanta. We’ve turned one of their conference rooms into a test lab. I have a standing policy to welcome any organization that wants either an up-close demonstration or a friendly visit. Unfortunately, there has been a general loss of enthusiasm for space ventures with all the funding cuts, but I’m confident that NASA can rekindle public excitement. President Warren certainly supports aggressive space exploration. As for the MCR initials, these were pure coincidence.”
“But if NASA can’t or won’t accept your invention, wouldn’t that suggest that your drone might be available for other, perhaps darker applications — including those in law enforcement or even the military?”
Robertson frowned. “I really don’t know,” he said. “We built the drone to explore planets. The beneficiaries are NASA and Georgia Tech’s bank account, in that order. There are plenty of other drones that can handle private or military surveillance. Our first priority is strictly planetary. Yes, ma’am, in the front row.”
“Neela Griffin, Fox Cable Business Tech. Is your project classified?”
“Good question. Let me be clear. My drone is not classified. In fact, you’ve already seen the preferred test site. Our stadium has lots of camera angles. The system components are modular and almost toy-like in design. They’re very easy to control and very sturdy. They have to be because of all the Martian rock structures. Even if the wings bump into something during flight, they’re designed to snap off and be easily replaced.
“The most aggressive drone aviators are under age twelve. My two sons learned to fly in less than an hour. It uses a handheld wireless controller-transmitter with toggles and buttons just like modern video games. If any of you or your organizations want a crack at being a drone pilot, come see me. I’ll be more than happy to make the arrangements.”
“Could your drone be used to deliver a weapon of mass destruction?” Griffin blurted.
A hush spread through the room. Even the waitstaff who were quietly collecting the tableware paused.
Robertson peered over his glasses. “The drone was built to survey Mars and collect samples. I don’t think it would do very well in a military proj—”
“That’s not what I asked,” Griffin said. “On February 5, 2003, Secretary of State Colin Powell made an absolute fool of himself in front of the United Nations and the world warning us that remote-controlled Iraqi drones outfitted with spray tanks and biological weapons constituted an ideal method for launching a terrorist attack. Many people believed that potential pushed us into the Iraq war. So, could a terrorist use your invention as a weapon of—?”
“No,” he shot back. “We’re not interested in destroying humanity. We’re interested in improving it.”
The audience applauded.
Carlo gently interjected himself. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, but we’re running a little behind. This concludes our official program. Please join us out on the terrace for an evening of romance with the Riccardo Perrici Ensemble. You’ll also find a delicious selection of wines and desserts. Tonight’s specialty is Zuppa Inglese, or the Italian Tipsy Cake. We hope it lives up to its name. Buon appetito.”
Chapter 8
Linda Robertson sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi, gently sweeping her hand through the 102-degree water. She stared, dreamlike, out of the window at the surreal sight of St. Peter’s Basilica to the southwest. Rome’s setting sunrays had formed a golden halo around the dome just like so many artists portrayed around the radiant face of Christ.
Robertson eased into the tub, moaning from the pain in his intestines.
Linda kissed his forehead. “Know what I think I’ll do?”
“Find a new husband? One who doesn’t ruin a wonderful vacation in the world’s most romantic city? We should cancel dinner. I’m really sorry. I feel terrible.”
“There’s always room service,” she said, drying her hands and setting the towel within his reach. “There’s a gift shop downstairs. Do you need anything else?”
“I’m fine.” He drew her hand to his mouth. “I’ll just sit here and sulk. Be careful.”
She dimmed the room lights and left.
Robertson submerged until his mustache met the water. His finger touched a button. Soft water jets rolled up and down his back like an undulating snake.
There was a knock at the door.
Now what? Robertson wondered. Great — she forgot her key card. He stood slowly and snatched a towel. Dizzy, he carefully made his way across the room and reached for the dead bolt latch. He never considered the security peephole.
“Professor Robertson?” Robertson quickly covered himself. Ali Naimi removed his hat and respectfully averted his eyes. “My name is Ibrahim Al-Assaf. I apologize for the intrusion, but I was unable to attend your award ceremony last evening. I heard it was most interesting. We have a mutual friend, Professor Al-Aran. I believe he is a colleague of yours. He mentioned that you were staying here. May I?”