To The Stars

“Feedback controls,” Jan said. “You’ve been on this project longer than I have so you know the problems. There is a little bit of white-hot hell that we have created down there in the sand. First the nitrogen is pumped down and converted to a plasma by the fusion generator. That in turn heats the sand and rock which evaporates some of the volatiles, which in turn creates pressure which pushes that petroleum to the surface. That’s the theory. But in practice there are about a hundred different things that can go wrong with the process…”

“I know. Everything from blowing the whole thing up or setting fire to it, or even melting down the reactor, which happened to us once in California. But honestly Jan, we re years past that stage.”

“But you are not years past monitoring inputs. There just aren’t enough of them to keep accurate watch on the process. It begins to cycle and the cycles build and get out of control, so you have to shut down and go back to the beginning and start over. But we have some new learning software that is beginning to predict the cycles and stop them before they happen. You have to give it a chance.”

Karaman swirled the oil around gloomily, then put the jar down to answer the phone. “It’s the director,” he said. “Wants you in his office soonest.”

“Right.”

The director held out a communication to Jan when he came through the door. “Something big coming apart at the central office. They need you, they say, yesterday or earlier. I have no idea what it is about, except the bastards could not have picked a worse time to pull you out. We’re finally getting the production leveled and on line. Tell them that, will you. They don’t seem to listen to me any more. Make them happy and grab the next plane back here. A pleasure to have you on the site, Kulozik. There’s a cab to pick you up.”

“I’ll have to pack…”

“Don’t worry. I took the liberty of having the BOQ servant put all your stuff into your bags. Get moving, so you can get back.”

Jan had more than a suspicion that he was not on his way to Suez and Cairo. The Arab cabdriver put Jan’s bags into the back then salaamed respectfully as he held the door open for him. It was cool in the air-conditioned interior, after the walk from the buildings. As they pulled away from the installation the driver took a fiat metal box from the seat and passed it back to him.

“Lift the lid, sir, and a push-button lock is revealed. If you are not aware of the combination do not experiment in cab, I beg you. Explosions follow error.”

“Thanks,” Jan said, weighing the package in his hands. “Is there anything else?”

“A meeting. I am taking you to the place of assignation. There is, I regret, a payment of eighty pounds for this service.”

Jan was sure that the man had been well paid for this service and that this additional payment was a little bit of free enterprise. He passed the money over in any case. His bank balance was still unbelievable. They drove down the smooth highway for a half an hour — then turned sharply into one of the tinmarked tracks that led out into the desert. A short while later they came to the scene of some forgotten battlefield filled with the shells of wrecked tanks and disabled field guns.

“Here please,” the driver said, opening the door. Heat pressed in in a savage wave. Jan got out and looked around. There was nothing in sight except the empty desert and the burned wreckage. When he turned back he saw that his bags were on the sand and the driver was climbing back into the cab.

“Hold it!” Jan called out. “What happens next?”

the man did not answer. Instead he gunned the engine to life, spun the vehicle in a tight circle and sped back toward the highway. The dust of his passage swirled over Jan who cursed fluently while he wiped his dripping face with the back of his hand.

When the sound of the cab died away the silence and loneliness pressed in. It was very peaceful, but a little frightening at the same time. And hot, searingly hot. If he had to walk back to the highway he would have to leave his bags here. He wouldn’t want to carry them, not in this temperature. He laid the metal box in the shade of the bags and hoped the explosive it contained was not heat sensitive.

“You are Cassius?” the voice said.

Jan turned about, startled, since he had not heard any footsteps in the muffling sand. The girl stood there, near the ruined tank, and the arrow of memory startled him so that he almost spoke her name aloud. No, Sara was dead, killed years ago. Yet the first glimpse of this suntanned girl in the brief khaki shorts, with her blond, shoulder-length hair, had startled him. The resemblance was so close. Or was his memory betraying him after all the years? She was an Israeli like Sara, that was all. He realized that he was still staring in silence and had not answered her.

“I’m from Cassius, yes. My name is Jan.”