Collision (19 page)

“Well, we didn't get many details from that SpaceMine announcement,” Taylor said. “We don't know the location of the so-called Asteroid USA.”

“‘So-called'? Why do you say that?” Quentin asked.

“You can't just pull a name out of a hat. There are rules about astronomical names.”

“Well, those miners are going to need a name for the place they go to work, right?”

“I think we can assume that there won't be any human miners involved, Jerry.”

“Robot mining?”

“Right. SpaceMine won't have to worry about the kind of miners' strikes that have been closing mines in Africa. But I worry that there are no regulations to establish rules for all of the commercial activity that's under way these days in space.”

“What kind of rules are you talking about?”

“The United States is a signatory to an outer-space treaty that specifically says space should not be ‘subject to national appropriation.'”

“Meaning what?” Quentin asked.

“Meaning no country can claim sovereignty over any heavenly bodies or asteroids. And if a country can't do that, I don't see how anybody can just plant a corporate flag in a large space rock and say you own it.”

Quentin was stunned. “You mean private enterprise puts up all the money, takes all the risk, and they don't own what's in it or on it? Whoa! Isn't this socialism at its worst?”

“All I'm saying is that it's unclear. I think the treaty needs to be amended to take into account all of the scientific progress we've seen since it was ratified back in 1967. There are other issues that need to be examined. If something goes wrong up there, according to the treaty, the private companies—or their government sponsors—could be held liable for any damage they cause to other countries or companies.”

“What do you mean ‘if something goes wrong'?” Quentin pressed, clearly unhappy with the thought that Taylor was calling for international regulations in the very area where American enterprise had a technological lead.

“Hypothetically, if the mining involves changing an asteroid's orbit without proper controls in place, there could be problems.”

“Such as?” Quentin asked.

“We don't know precisely what the unintended consequences might be. The worst result could be setting up a collision course with Earth.”

“Oh, so we just get hit by an asteroid. Nothing to lose sleep about,” Quentin said with an uneasy laugh.

“I'm not suggesting that the sky is falling. I just want us to learn about asteroids.”

“Okay. Let's start off by learning this: What are the chances of an asteroid hitting Earth?”

“There's no way to accurately calculate those chances. But an asteroid about, say, fifty meters in diameter, hits about once every thousand years or so on average. An asteroid large enough to cause global problems—one that's bigger than a kilometer in diameter—well, one like that hits about every seven hundred thousand years.”

“‘Global problems'? Like, ‘goodbye planet'?”

Taylor did not respond. Quentin waited a beat and asked, “So, is this the thousandth year or the seven hundred thousandth?”

“I didn't mean to post odds, Jerry. Don't tell your viewers to rush out and buy any asteroid insurance just yet,” Taylor answered with a laugh, his eyes dancing with playful mischief. “I'm no expert on just what scares investors. But I think we're safe for another few years.” Taylor couldn't contain a wide smile from breaking like a wave across his face.

“So there's nothing to worry about,” Quentin said.

“I didn't say that,” Taylor responded, losing the grin. “There are dangers.”

“Yeah, every thousand years.”

“No. Right now,” Taylor responded. “The danger involves what asteroids are selected for mining.”

“Oh, Ben, you are such a gloomy one!” Quentin said.

“It's not gloom, Jerry,” Taylor said. “It's common sense.”

“Let's get back to the financial angle,” Quentin said, taking control of the interview. “The SpaceMine guys mentioned one asteroid that is supposed to contain eight trillion dollars' worth of platinum. Any idea what asteroid that would be?”

“Robert Wentworth Hamilton gave some asteroid his commercial name—the so-called Asteroid USA. But he didn't give us a clue about what astronomically recorded asteroid it actually is. There are more than one million near-Earth objects that are big enough to destroy a city. And we only know where about one percent of them are at any given time. Those near-Earth objects—NEOs—that have been studied appear to contain a lot of different metals. Tons of platinum is certainly possible, even on a very small asteroid.”

“Right now,” Quentin said, “platinum is trading close to the same rate as gold. But what happens if you dump eight trillion dollars' worth of platinum onto the Earth market?”

“You're the business expert, Jerry,” Taylor said. “Think about it. We're going to keep adding people to the planet, and they'll likely be making bigger demands for platinum, palladium, and other metals. Especially for hydrogen fuel cells to power cars. Right now, the bulk of the platinum and palladium comes from Russia and from mines in South Africa where rotten conditions cause some bloody strikes. So it looks to me that SpaceMine would break up the Russian and South African duopoly and own a piece of real estate worth eight trillion dollars. No wonder so many people seem eager to sign up for the IPO when it's announced. It looks like another gold rush, just as Hamilton says.”

“It doesn't take much to get people to flock to an IPO these days,” Quentin said.

“There's something else, Jerry. IPOs get regulated—maybe not as much as some people would want. But they get watched over by the SEC. There's nobody watching over space. Imagine what oil prospecting in the Gulf of Mexico would be like with absolutely no regulations. I just hope that the SpaceMine hoopla will get our politicians to start thinking about space law and the UN space treaty that's been around for years.”

“A lot of people would chip in to send the UN into outer space,” Quentin said. “Thanks, Dr. Taylor, for taking us out of the world.”

 

35

Taylor's
Street Speak
appearance
produced a flurry of e-mails—requests from Jon Stewart's
Daily Show
and other first-tier television shows, colleagues congratulating him for raising the dangers of unregulated asteroid mining, and the inevitable zealots who feared or welcomed the end of the world. He left them all unanswered because he was deep in space, day and night, plugging away at his
NOVA
show.

Two days after his Folger meeting with Falcone, Ben Taylor was driven to the Virginia studios of WETA, Washington's flagship public broadcasting station. He knew the place well, because this was where his monthly
Your Universe
show was produced. Now he was here to watch over a final run-through of “An Asteroid Closely Watched.”

Near the end of the day, his
NOVA
coproducer convinced him to shave off one minute and nineteen seconds. When that was done, they then pronounced the show ready for prime time, and Taylor, carrying a digital copy of the show, was driven back to the Air and Space Museum. He had returned to Earth.

He went directly to the planetarium, handed the show disks to the operations manager, and then took the elevator to his office. As he left, his booming voice could be faintly heard on the recording of the day's final scheduled museum show, “Reaching for the Stars: A Trip to Our Nearest Neighbor.” As soon as the show ended and the audience exited, staffers began transforming the planetarium into a theater. There a select audience would see a preview of the
NOVA
show.

When Taylor entered his office, Molly greeted him with the news that he was to call Agent Sarsfield.

“When did he call?” Taylor asked.

“About twenty minutes ago?”

Taylor looked at his watch and said, half to himself, “Just about when I got to the museum.”

“You think they're following you?” Molly asked, instinctively looking toward the door.

“Maybe, Molly. Maybe. I'm going to call him. And,” he added, “as I told you, no more accidents.”

Taylor went to his desk, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then called Sarsfield, who answered on the second ring.

“Taylor here, responding to your call. How may I help you?” He spoke calmly, proud of his voice control.

“Just one question, Dr. Taylor. Are you familiar with Robert Wentworth Hamilton?”

“Familiar? No. But of course I know the name.”

“In what context?”

“You said ‘one question.'”

“Just following up, sir.”

After a short pause, Taylor felt a surprisingly cautious tone seep into his voice as he said, “I suppose that, for me, the context is SpaceMine. Mr. Hamilton is the CEO of SpaceMine.”

“Yes. That's correct. And, regarding SpaceMine, you may recall that, on a televised news show, you suggested that if SpaceMine were to mine a certain asteroid, the mining might put the Earth in jeopardy.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” Taylor exploded. “What does this have to do with the murders you're supposed to be investigating?”

“I am not at liberty to say, Dr. Taylor. But it is a fact, according to the transcript of that show,
Street Speak
, you did discuss SpaceMine and asteroid mining dangers.”

“Look, Agent Sarsfield. This happens to be a very busy day for me. If you want to know what I think I know about asteroids, I suggest that you see the show, which will be shown a week from tonight on all PBS stations. And then call me.”

“I hope to do that, Doctor. Thank you for your call.”

 

36

Taylor stood near the
Touchable Moon Rock display in the museum's grand entry hall on the Mall, greeting guests as they passed through the “Milestones of Flight” gallery and headed toward the reception's wine and hors d'oeuvres. Many of them touched the lunar sample before shaking his hand. The gesture reminded him of the hand-dip into the holy-water fount at St. Sebastian's Church in his Bronx boyhood.

Among the first to arrive were Darlene and Major Sam Bancroft. Taylor leaned down to give Darlene a cheek-kiss and then gave Bancroft the full Dr. Benjamin Taylor handshake—right hand pumping, left hand reaching around to pat Bancroft's broad back. Darlene and Sam had met a few months ago, and Taylor believed that their romance was on the brink of serious.

“Looking forward to the show, Doc—… Ben,” Bancroft said, slipping past the honorific to the recently bestowed first name. Bancroft was as tall as Taylor, a blue-eyed, buzz-cut blond Midwesterner in the blue uniform of an Air Force officer.
He could be on a recruiting poster,
Taylor thought.

Bancroft had met Darlene at the library of American University, where she worked while juggling graduate school courses on the long road to a doctorate in international affairs. He had been taking an accelerated summer language course in Arabic. He was now stationed at the Pentagon, doing something he did not talk about.

Darlene walked away to intercept another arrival, Sean Falcone, before he had a chance to reach Taylor. She hugged Falcone and said, “Sean! It's been too long.”

“My God, how long it has been! And how beautiful you are!” Falcone said.

“You are very good for my morale, Sean. Come over and meet my … friend,” Darlene said, pulling Falcone by the arm toward Bancroft and Taylor. When Falcone was introduced, he glanced at the rows of ribbons under Bancroft's silver wings. He recognized the bits of color that meant service in Afghanistan and Iraq, the distinctive color of the bar signifying a Purple Heart, and the red-white-and-blue for a Silver Star. “Gallantry in action, wounded in action,” Falcone said, looking up from the ribbons. “An honor to shake your hand, Major. Afghanistan?”

“Yes, sir,” Bancroft said, looking embarrassed at the sudden attention.

“He won't tell you about that medal,” Darlene said, touching the Silver Star ribbon. “I had to look up the citation. They're all online if you know where to look. It was a combat search-and-rescue mission. Landed a helicopter to pick up a couple of our guys who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shot some bad guys and took a round himself. But he stayed at the controls and got our guys out of there. Did I say controls? He's a regular control freak.”

“A Pave Hawk?” Falcone asked.

“Yes, sir. A beautiful helicopter. May I ask, sir, are you retired military?”

“Well, I was military a long while back. Vietnam. But I was a civilian when I first heard about the Pave Hawk.”

“Sean was a senator,” Taylor said. “And President Oxley's national security advisor during the President's first term.”

“Sorry, sir. I didn't recognize—”

“No need. Advisors are low-profile. There were people in the White House who didn't recognize me. And the Senate, like Vietnam, was a while back. But I remember that the Air Force needed some money to upgrade the Black Hawks, and I was one of the senators who thought that was a good idea. Glad to hear yours did its job.”

“Still have Black Hawks for jobs like the one on Osama Bin Laden,” Bancroft said, suddenly losing his shyness. “Special Forces still call theirs Black Hawks. We—search-and-rescue—called 'em Pave Hawks for its avionics package. Anyway, I guess I should thank you, sir.”

“Save your ‘sir's for the Pentagon,” Darlene said. “He's
Sean
.”

“You're at the Pentagon?” Falcone asked.

“Yes, sir.”

When Bancroft did not elaborate, Falcone knew there would be no point in asking questions about his Pentagon duties. And, realizing that Taylor needed to circulate among his guests, Falcone steered Darlene and Bancroft toward the wine and hors d'oeuvres.