The scientists and technicians gathered in the rumpus room at Bianco’s command. He did not need to ask permission, nor did he need to ask where to hold the meeting. Bianco knew the station’s layout in his heart, better perhaps than many of the scientists who had spent ninety days aboard. Bianco had spent years “seeing” Trikon Station in all its details.
Although the expended shuttle external tank that formed the rumpus room was the same size as the Mars module, its lack of scientific equipment made it the single most spacious area on the station, and the natural site for the meeting. Of course, there was no dais, and there were no chairs. Dan secured his three bonsai animals so they would not make a distracting backdrop for Bianco as he spoke. Lance Muncie and Freddy Aviles installed a portable floor grid on which the Trikon scientists and technicians could anchor their feet during the meeting.
Every member of the Trikon scientific community gathered in the rumpus room. Aaron Weiss joined the group, but rather than anchor himself to the floor grid he drifted above the assembly and slightly to one side so that he could see their faces without distracting them too much. His Minicam was loosely attached to his neck and he gripped a magnetized notepad in one hand.
Bianco looked small, almost shrunken in the light-blue Trikon flight suit he wore for the occasion. The open collar exposed the wrinkles and veins of his neck. The clinging pants revealed the sharp points of his knee and hip bones. Yet somehow he looked vital, eager. His eyes sparkled. He smiled gently at his employees.
“When I was a young man,” he began, “I would sit in my family’s garden at night and watch the stars track slowly across the sky. I dreamed of another star, not a glowing ball of hydrogen and helium hundreds of light years away, but a glittering diamond of aluminum and titanium that could circle our planet in a mere ninety minutes. And in that glittering diamond the finest minds from every nation would gather and direct their energies toward developing a second generation of science and technology that would solve the problems created by our well-meaning but ignorant forebears.”
Bianco hesitated a moment. The scientists and technicians, anchored by their floor restraints, swayed slightly like a field of brightly colored anemones rocking back and forth in the tide.
“There are many in the world who blame all our ills on science and technology. They say that we have too much technology, that we must give up our sophisticated machines and return to a simpler way of life. Otherwise the world will be polluted to death.”
The light in Bianco’s eyes changed. His voice became stronger, more urgent.
“But how can the human race go back to a simpler life without allowing billions to die? Can we privileged rich permit the world’s poor to starve, to die of disease? No. The answer, my friends, is not less technology, but more. We need an entirely new type of technology, second-generation technology, new and clean and based on the scientific breakthroughs that you are striving to create. Second-generation technology can feed the hungry without polluting the air and the seas. Second-generation technology can give us all the energy we need without destroying the global environment.”
Bianco studied their faces as he spoke. Only a few seemed to be accepting his words. Most of them looked impassive, indifferent.
“The most important task for our new scientific capabilities is to learn how to clean up the filth that the first-generation technologies have generated. That is why we are here. That is our high purpose. To cleanse the Earth of the toxic waste that is choking the air and strangling the oceans of our planet. That is why I created Trikon Station: to give you a place where you can save the world.
“I am a lucky man. It is not everyone who can board an aerospace plane and ascend to his dreams.”
Eye pressed to his Minicam, Aaron Weiss scrutinized every face as Bianco spoke of his vision of Trikon. He saw blank-faced Japanese, dour Europeans, impassive Canadians, confident, almost arrogant Americans. He matched the faces with names he had memorized. The Japanese with the thick neck and rolls of fat visible up the back of his crew-cut head was Hisashi Oyamo. The Indian with the greasy hair and billowing yellow kurta was Chakra Ramsanjawi. The woman with the salt-and-pepper buzzcut and cast-iron features was Thora Skillen.
Most of the names meant nothing to Weiss. But he felt a vague tug in his memory when he thought of Ramsanjawi. There was something unseemly in the Indian’s past, but Weiss wasn’t exactly sure what it was.
“It is not my intention to sound a Biblical note,” continued Bianco, “but there is a plague upon the land. We may not have as much time as we thought. Whales have been dying in the seas while we bicker among ourselves for the glory of ridding our world of toxic wastes. But this is not a problem that recognizes national borders. It does not even recognize different continents. It is truly a world problem.”
Goddammit, I was right, thought Weiss. There is a connection with the whales. And that old bastard played it so cool on the space plane, asking me if the reports were accurate. He knew damn well they were accurate all along.
Weiss stifled his self-congratulation long enough to train his Minicam on each of the faces in the audience. Now they began to look troubled as Bianco elaborated on the whale deaths. There was a connection. Definitely. And Trikon had known about it for a long time. The level of toxic wastes in the oceans had become so high that it was killing the phytoplankton. The whales were dying of starvation, just as Weiss had thought. Soon the atmosphere’s supply of oxygen would start to dwindle.
“I must make it entirely clear to you,” Bianco was saying, his voice now edged with sharp steel. “We are not talking in abstractions anymore. As the phytoplankton die, the human race will die. We are not talking about a problem that will manifest itself in a century or two. We have perhaps two decades, perhaps much less. We must find the way of destroying the toxic wastes in the oceans or they will destroy us. There is no third alternative.”
They were all leaning toward Bianco now, their faces etched with worry, their heads nodding agreement and resolve. But as Weiss panned the crowd, he found two scientists who seemed totally unconcerned about the implications of the whale deaths, at least to judge by the expressions on their faces. One was Chakra Ramsanjawi. The other he did not know: Hugh O’Donnell.
Bianco continued, “The public perceives us as a gaggle of overgrown children joy-riding across the sky in our expensive toy. Or worse, it sees us as fattened Neroes fiddling while Rome burns.
“I wish that our only problem was the public’s perception. In that case, our public relations firms could help us. But, ladies and gentlemen, I need not remind you that our problem is not one of perception. Nature is not swayed by hidden persuaders. We are running out of time.
“For these reasons, and with the advice and consent of the Boards of Directors of each of Trikon’s arms, I am assuming full authority to direct and coordinate our research efforts aboard Trikon Station. Each of the three coordinators will report directly to me from now on.”
A murmur rose among the crowd. Weiss trained his Minicam first on Chakra Ramsanjawi, then on Hugh O’Donnell. Neither reacted in any visible way to the surprise announcement.
Bianco adjourned the meeting. The audience drifted away, dispersing into knots of twos and threes, talking among themselves. Some seemed agitated, others almost stunned.
“Mr. Bianco, Mr. Bianco,” called Weiss as he swam toward the end of the rumpus room. There were no other reporters for him to jockey with. Trikon Station was a reporter’s heaven.