A Shift in Priorities - Sequel
- Thread starter rast
- Start date
Yeah, ASiP is one of the best parts of my day. I hope it is published one day. I'll take ten copies.
Be above it! Make the world serve your purpose, but do not serve it!
(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)
Doctor Goebbels' newspaper story, which was published simultaneously in three leading German daily papers, did indeed rock the public – not only in Germany. Suddenly, the secret knowledge of the elites was spilled out to the men and women in the street. However, the article was not entirely alarmist. It was titled: Fighting the new Ice Age. Yes, it said, a new ice age was coming – by all probability, but there was a way how to thwart the advance of the glaciers. German scientist had developed a plan. And they were working hard to implement it. Carl Friedrich von Weizsäcker was not explicitly named, as this facet had evaded Goebbels' investigation, but the conception of the little sun was aptly explained.
Well, the cat was out of the bag, irrevocably. Vociferous public debate started immediately, but screaming panic failed to appear. – After two extremely cold and hideous winters, most people were ready to believe in a new ice age. Actually, many a person had already concluded that something with the weather wasn't quite kosher. What an ice age really meant, however, remained fuzzy for most, at least initially. – That the boffins should have a plan how to battle the ice reassured folks in general. German science would solve the problem. How flamboyant the little sun idea really was, would only trickle through little by little.
Nevertheless, many of those who could afford it now started looking for real estate in southern Italy or Spain. But most Germans couldn't treat themselves to foreign immovables; they weren't even solvent for affording domestic ones. They had to trust that scientists and spacers knew their job. – At that time, the failed Russian attempts to melt some Novaya Zemlya glaciers were still a well–protected secret, else optimism would surely have been down by several pegs. – After all, the little sun was going to be ignited in outer space, therefore one had nothing to fear from radioactive pollution.
The government, evidently innocent of the Great Qing Doomsday Device and ostensibly anxious to find an adequate recourse to the present quandary, did escape criticism for the most part. They had done what could be done. – One could be glad that a solution – or at least a bold approach to a solution – had been found. – At that moment, however, Herbert Weller and his AFV were chiming in. Weller had been looking for something extraordinary to build his campaign around. Now, he had found it.
This was an ideal opportunity to make use of superior German science and technology. An extended mission in space crowned by the salutary fire of an artificial sun, what could be better suited for that purpose? 'We can do it!' was exactly the appropriate motto. There was no doubt in Weller's mind, Germany could do it. Conquering other nations was a gormless pursuit, just mindless gory carnage, but conquering space was magnificent. – Germans to the moon! Germans to the planets! That was the proper spirit. – One had uplifted Middle Africa, now it was time to colonise space.
The geezers, who formed the current government, had done the right thing, it was true. But they and their same–aged colleagues in the Reichstag were not capable of seeing this through, they were simply too old. He, Herbert Weller, was young enough – and versed enough – to lead German space exploration to triumph. The little sun mission was going to create a solid cadre – and a space station, because the spacers had to stay in orbit during construction. Building on this, the moon was going to be within reach. Not just for circling around it, but for building a permanent base. This accomplished, one would attack Mars... – and Venus...
(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)
Doctor Goebbels' newspaper story, which was published simultaneously in three leading German daily papers, did indeed rock the public – not only in Germany. Suddenly, the secret knowledge of the elites was spilled out to the men and women in the street. However, the article was not entirely alarmist. It was titled: Fighting the new Ice Age. Yes, it said, a new ice age was coming – by all probability, but there was a way how to thwart the advance of the glaciers. German scientist had developed a plan. And they were working hard to implement it. Carl Friedrich von Weizsäcker was not explicitly named, as this facet had evaded Goebbels' investigation, but the conception of the little sun was aptly explained.
Well, the cat was out of the bag, irrevocably. Vociferous public debate started immediately, but screaming panic failed to appear. – After two extremely cold and hideous winters, most people were ready to believe in a new ice age. Actually, many a person had already concluded that something with the weather wasn't quite kosher. What an ice age really meant, however, remained fuzzy for most, at least initially. – That the boffins should have a plan how to battle the ice reassured folks in general. German science would solve the problem. How flamboyant the little sun idea really was, would only trickle through little by little.
Nevertheless, many of those who could afford it now started looking for real estate in southern Italy or Spain. But most Germans couldn't treat themselves to foreign immovables; they weren't even solvent for affording domestic ones. They had to trust that scientists and spacers knew their job. – At that time, the failed Russian attempts to melt some Novaya Zemlya glaciers were still a well–protected secret, else optimism would surely have been down by several pegs. – After all, the little sun was going to be ignited in outer space, therefore one had nothing to fear from radioactive pollution.
The government, evidently innocent of the Great Qing Doomsday Device and ostensibly anxious to find an adequate recourse to the present quandary, did escape criticism for the most part. They had done what could be done. – One could be glad that a solution – or at least a bold approach to a solution – had been found. – At that moment, however, Herbert Weller and his AFV were chiming in. Weller had been looking for something extraordinary to build his campaign around. Now, he had found it.
This was an ideal opportunity to make use of superior German science and technology. An extended mission in space crowned by the salutary fire of an artificial sun, what could be better suited for that purpose? 'We can do it!' was exactly the appropriate motto. There was no doubt in Weller's mind, Germany could do it. Conquering other nations was a gormless pursuit, just mindless gory carnage, but conquering space was magnificent. – Germans to the moon! Germans to the planets! That was the proper spirit. – One had uplifted Middle Africa, now it was time to colonise space.
The geezers, who formed the current government, had done the right thing, it was true. But they and their same–aged colleagues in the Reichstag were not capable of seeing this through, they were simply too old. He, Herbert Weller, was young enough – and versed enough – to lead German space exploration to triumph. The little sun mission was going to create a solid cadre – and a space station, because the spacers had to stay in orbit during construction. Building on this, the moon was going to be within reach. Not just for circling around it, but for building a permanent base. This accomplished, one would attack Mars... – and Venus...
Well, if the Germans really can use the little sun to 'end the little ice age', it is going to occur to military planners that such a thing can now be used as a weapon. Why bother nuking your enemy when you can now destroy his environment from space?
Nonetheless, I still don't think that in the 1950s, even ITTL where technological advancement is somewhat greater, that this can work in the way that it is intended. It smacks of the whole 'V-2 rockets will be the miracle weapon for us'!
Nonetheless, I still don't think that in the 1950s, even ITTL where technological advancement is somewhat greater, that this can work in the way that it is intended. It smacks of the whole 'V-2 rockets will be the miracle weapon for us'!
Spring is the time of plans and projects.
(Leo Tolstoy)
In Moscow and Achinsk, the proclamation of the German little sun initiative had caused considerable astonishment. The little sun created by those Chinese morons had shone for perhaps three seconds, perhaps even less, one didn't know exactly. And one didn't know precisely how much liquid hydrogen they had employed, but it hardly could have been more than ten to twelve cubic metres. – How much of the stuff did the Germans intend to use? Even if they applied a hundredfold – and their little sun should shine for five minutes, what could that achieve? – One had heated – and actually melted – a glacier with a directly administered fusion bomb, but it had grown again within three weeks. So, what should five minutes of orbital sunshine accomplish?
That the Germans should be able to stage their gimmick scheme, was not in doubt. So far, their space programme had run with minimal dash only. Once they decided to combine their national resources, they could start launching rockets like in a non–stop operation. – However, to what avail? Okay, one had no clue what von Weizsäcker had contrived in his study, but he certainly hadn't invented the perpetuum mobile. Once the hydrogen had been consumed, the little sun – provided its creation succeeded at all – was going to die for sure. – Well, should – against all expectations – the scheme work, one would be saved. – But what could Russia yet do to fight the new ice age? Bombs didn't work, this one had found out already. What else remained?
A mirror! A curved mirror that concentrated sunlight! – It was a junior engineer, who first came up with the idea, a certain Ivan Petrovich Protototopov. Of course, the mirror – or the multiple mirrors – had to be huge, but without gravity interfering, the construction could be made minimalist – just a flimsy frame holding a thin film... This new fancy quickly gained advocates. – Could it be done? How much surface was required? – Prime Minister Vatutin was briefed on it – and endorsed it. Every opportunity had to be used. Details could be worked out later. If Russia was to be saved, one had to act – immediately and decisively. As a result, NASA and the huge Russian trusts started plotting how to save the world.
(Leo Tolstoy)
In Moscow and Achinsk, the proclamation of the German little sun initiative had caused considerable astonishment. The little sun created by those Chinese morons had shone for perhaps three seconds, perhaps even less, one didn't know exactly. And one didn't know precisely how much liquid hydrogen they had employed, but it hardly could have been more than ten to twelve cubic metres. – How much of the stuff did the Germans intend to use? Even if they applied a hundredfold – and their little sun should shine for five minutes, what could that achieve? – One had heated – and actually melted – a glacier with a directly administered fusion bomb, but it had grown again within three weeks. So, what should five minutes of orbital sunshine accomplish?
That the Germans should be able to stage their gimmick scheme, was not in doubt. So far, their space programme had run with minimal dash only. Once they decided to combine their national resources, they could start launching rockets like in a non–stop operation. – However, to what avail? Okay, one had no clue what von Weizsäcker had contrived in his study, but he certainly hadn't invented the perpetuum mobile. Once the hydrogen had been consumed, the little sun – provided its creation succeeded at all – was going to die for sure. – Well, should – against all expectations – the scheme work, one would be saved. – But what could Russia yet do to fight the new ice age? Bombs didn't work, this one had found out already. What else remained?
A mirror! A curved mirror that concentrated sunlight! – It was a junior engineer, who first came up with the idea, a certain Ivan Petrovich Protototopov. Of course, the mirror – or the multiple mirrors – had to be huge, but without gravity interfering, the construction could be made minimalist – just a flimsy frame holding a thin film... This new fancy quickly gained advocates. – Could it be done? How much surface was required? – Prime Minister Vatutin was briefed on it – and endorsed it. Every opportunity had to be used. Details could be worked out later. If Russia was to be saved, one had to act – immediately and decisively. As a result, NASA and the huge Russian trusts started plotting how to save the world.
A curved mirror in space? I guess the Russians intend to create a space-laser or something. Sounds like something out of a villain of a James Bond film.
The numerous people who imagine that a long stay in the Polar regions makes a man less susceptible of cold than other mortals are completely mistaken.
(Roald Amundsen)
While in the world's two scientifically most advanced nations ambitious plans for bold space missions were being generated, the scientists at the KWI Met were still poring over their data. – Something was fishy, definitely fishy... Snow was required to build glaciers, that observation was beyond dispute. The Gulf Stream and its extension, the North Atlantic Current, were transporting humidity to the Polar region, which then was transformed to snow. That fact fitted into the picture. – But as long as the NAC was flowing into the Norwegian Sea, the Scandinavian glaciers shouldn't grow – or rather, the hibernal growth should melt away in spring and summer.
One knew quite a lot about past glaciations, but not so much about how those ice shields had been formed. – What had caused the glacier advances? And what had eventually made the bulk ice melt? – About ten years ago, the Hungarian Milan Milanković had proposed a theory about warm stage – cold stage relations. But that had to do with excentricity of earth orbit, tilt angle and perihelion. All that – evidently – was not applicable here. One was dealing with global dimming caused by dirt hurled into the atmosphere by the GQDD, one assumed. This was remotely similar to past volcano eruptions, like the one of the Tambora in 1812, which had lasted until 1815 and had caused the infamous 'Year without a Summer' in 1816.
Seemingly, the GQDD had thrown up much more debris than most people had anticipated – at least in the beginning. This high–volume debris was now reflecting sunlight away from earth's surface, one believed. – Hence, a general drop in temperature had occurred, of about two degrees Celsius, which had led to current conditions. – All that was evident more or less. But it didn't explain why the ice was selective. Why, despite the NAC flowing freely, had the Scandinavian glaciers grown in the winter of 1951/52, while they had remained stagnant 1952/53? And why had the Novaya Zemlya glaciers been stagnant the first winter, but had been growing recently?
Actually, the glaciers of Greenland, northern Canada and Novaya Zemlya had to considered beyond contemplation. They were not influenced by Gulf Stream and NAC, at least not in a way one could gauge. One just was reduced to observing what was happening to them, which was extremely interesting, however. – But conditions in Scandinavia – and the Alps – were well known. And records didn't quite fit to what one had come to expect. – Now, all that might mean nothing, might be just a normal variance, but Alfred Wegener and Fritz Loewe were disaffected nevertheless. Where was the glitch they had missed? The whole affair simply wasn't consistent...
(Roald Amundsen)
While in the world's two scientifically most advanced nations ambitious plans for bold space missions were being generated, the scientists at the KWI Met were still poring over their data. – Something was fishy, definitely fishy... Snow was required to build glaciers, that observation was beyond dispute. The Gulf Stream and its extension, the North Atlantic Current, were transporting humidity to the Polar region, which then was transformed to snow. That fact fitted into the picture. – But as long as the NAC was flowing into the Norwegian Sea, the Scandinavian glaciers shouldn't grow – or rather, the hibernal growth should melt away in spring and summer.
One knew quite a lot about past glaciations, but not so much about how those ice shields had been formed. – What had caused the glacier advances? And what had eventually made the bulk ice melt? – About ten years ago, the Hungarian Milan Milanković had proposed a theory about warm stage – cold stage relations. But that had to do with excentricity of earth orbit, tilt angle and perihelion. All that – evidently – was not applicable here. One was dealing with global dimming caused by dirt hurled into the atmosphere by the GQDD, one assumed. This was remotely similar to past volcano eruptions, like the one of the Tambora in 1812, which had lasted until 1815 and had caused the infamous 'Year without a Summer' in 1816.
Seemingly, the GQDD had thrown up much more debris than most people had anticipated – at least in the beginning. This high–volume debris was now reflecting sunlight away from earth's surface, one believed. – Hence, a general drop in temperature had occurred, of about two degrees Celsius, which had led to current conditions. – All that was evident more or less. But it didn't explain why the ice was selective. Why, despite the NAC flowing freely, had the Scandinavian glaciers grown in the winter of 1951/52, while they had remained stagnant 1952/53? And why had the Novaya Zemlya glaciers been stagnant the first winter, but had been growing recently?
Actually, the glaciers of Greenland, northern Canada and Novaya Zemlya had to considered beyond contemplation. They were not influenced by Gulf Stream and NAC, at least not in a way one could gauge. One just was reduced to observing what was happening to them, which was extremely interesting, however. – But conditions in Scandinavia – and the Alps – were well known. And records didn't quite fit to what one had come to expect. – Now, all that might mean nothing, might be just a normal variance, but Alfred Wegener and Fritz Loewe were disaffected nevertheless. Where was the glitch they had missed? The whole affair simply wasn't consistent...
Great God! This is an awful place.
(Robert Scott)
USS Sheldrake was an auxiliary craft, an ocean research vessel. In normal times, she was employed to chart the ocean floor, an activity that was considered useful for anti–submarine warfare. On this occasion, however, she had been sent to the Southern Ocean. – In the US, the GQDD–caused freak weather and the recently reported growth of glaciers on Iceland were observed with growing concern, as icebergs were increasingly compromising shipping off Portland, Boston and New York. One was not yet inclined to shout "Ice Age!" in Washington, but things had to be kept under close surveillance. Accordingly, several navy vessels had been dispatched for research in arctic waters – and USS Sheldrake had been posted to Antarctica.
Three civilian scientists had embarked at Norfolk, Virginia, before the ship had put out to sea. But no extra equipment had been received, except the stuff in the boxes, which the scientists had hoisted aboard. They were junior scientists, the crew soon had established, folks without academic reputation. The pundits had all been deployed to the waters around Greenland. – The journey had taken place without undue haste and had been reassuringly uneventful. One had found... nothing. Autumnal Antarctica in 1953 didn't look any different than before. The boffins had eagerly compared photographs and taken measurements – and finally declared: no change. This result had already been radioed to Norfolk in advance.
Currently, one was approaching the Falklands. These were a British possession, but nevertheless a welcome stop for taking in fresh water, meat and vegetables, although the latter were imported from Argentina or Uruguay. One had already made a stop there on the approach journey. The islanders were not touched by British communism, except for the governor, who also was acting as chief controller – and was the only controller present anyway. It had been quite interesting to note that the Falklanders were rather eager to remain British subjects. Argentinian claims on the islands were unanimously repudiated. Obviously, the islanders were of the opinion: better red than... well, not really dead, but perhaps marginalised.
The island population came from diverse origins. There had been no indigenes. Early settlers had come from Argentina, Uruguay – and from all over Europe. British sovereignty since the 1830ies, which always had been – and still was – contested by official Buenos Aires, had naturally brought ashore colonists from the British Isles – mainly from Scotland. From the approximately 2,200 people living on the islands today, about eighty percent were of British stock, while roughly ten percent were claiming Chilean provenance – but hardly anybody was alleging Argentinian descent. – Folks were in fact dreading an Argentine takeover, one had learnt.
If the mainlanders, the Gauchos, came to rule the islands, one or two large landowners would take it all, in well–tried Argentine manner. The islanders would lose their property – and their individuality. Indeed, people were happy to be living on the islands; most didn't want to leave – and, in particular, not go back to Red Albion. They were, one had discovered, glad of their niche existence. – Well, as there was no climatic change going on down here, evidently, matters could be expected to simply crack on. The Argentinians hardly would risk British nuclear retaliation – for acquiring some sheep, cattle, fowl and fish...
(Robert Scott)
USS Sheldrake was an auxiliary craft, an ocean research vessel. In normal times, she was employed to chart the ocean floor, an activity that was considered useful for anti–submarine warfare. On this occasion, however, she had been sent to the Southern Ocean. – In the US, the GQDD–caused freak weather and the recently reported growth of glaciers on Iceland were observed with growing concern, as icebergs were increasingly compromising shipping off Portland, Boston and New York. One was not yet inclined to shout "Ice Age!" in Washington, but things had to be kept under close surveillance. Accordingly, several navy vessels had been dispatched for research in arctic waters – and USS Sheldrake had been posted to Antarctica.
Three civilian scientists had embarked at Norfolk, Virginia, before the ship had put out to sea. But no extra equipment had been received, except the stuff in the boxes, which the scientists had hoisted aboard. They were junior scientists, the crew soon had established, folks without academic reputation. The pundits had all been deployed to the waters around Greenland. – The journey had taken place without undue haste and had been reassuringly uneventful. One had found... nothing. Autumnal Antarctica in 1953 didn't look any different than before. The boffins had eagerly compared photographs and taken measurements – and finally declared: no change. This result had already been radioed to Norfolk in advance.
Currently, one was approaching the Falklands. These were a British possession, but nevertheless a welcome stop for taking in fresh water, meat and vegetables, although the latter were imported from Argentina or Uruguay. One had already made a stop there on the approach journey. The islanders were not touched by British communism, except for the governor, who also was acting as chief controller – and was the only controller present anyway. It had been quite interesting to note that the Falklanders were rather eager to remain British subjects. Argentinian claims on the islands were unanimously repudiated. Obviously, the islanders were of the opinion: better red than... well, not really dead, but perhaps marginalised.
The island population came from diverse origins. There had been no indigenes. Early settlers had come from Argentina, Uruguay – and from all over Europe. British sovereignty since the 1830ies, which always had been – and still was – contested by official Buenos Aires, had naturally brought ashore colonists from the British Isles – mainly from Scotland. From the approximately 2,200 people living on the islands today, about eighty percent were of British stock, while roughly ten percent were claiming Chilean provenance – but hardly anybody was alleging Argentinian descent. – Folks were in fact dreading an Argentine takeover, one had learnt.
If the mainlanders, the Gauchos, came to rule the islands, one or two large landowners would take it all, in well–tried Argentine manner. The islanders would lose their property – and their individuality. Indeed, people were happy to be living on the islands; most didn't want to leave – and, in particular, not go back to Red Albion. They were, one had discovered, glad of their niche existence. – Well, as there was no climatic change going on down here, evidently, matters could be expected to simply crack on. The Argentinians hardly would risk British nuclear retaliation – for acquiring some sheep, cattle, fowl and fish...
While other nations do battle, you lucky Austria, you wed.
(attributed to Maria Theresa)
At the mature age of forty–two, King II Otto of Hungary experienced his mother caving in at long last. Her quest to find him a suitable foreign princess as spouse had ultimately failed, after countless attempts. But it was high time he sired a heir, wasn't it? Therefore, she eventually was accepting that he married a Hungarian aristocrat. Karoline Nádasdy was the chosen one. She was twelve years his junior, hence in best fertile age – and her family was ancient nobility and rich, very rich, even for the elevated standards of Hungarian aristocracy, just the ideal combination.
At thirty, Karoline could be considered a spinster, it was true. Hungarian girls in general married much earlier, between fifteen and twenty–three. That was all the more true for the nobility. Karoline was, however, a veritable amazon: she was riding, fencing and swimming for the respective national teams. – There had been an engagement in 1941, but the young man, a fighter pilot, had died in an air accident – just three weeks prior to the marriage. He had been a Czeszneky, a nephew of Mihály Czeszneky, the famous industrialist. Thereafter, it was said, Karoline had rebuffed all advances.
Well, until Otto had proposed to her. – Was it love? Perhaps not – or not yet. But becoming királynó ostensibly was an offer one couldn't reject. – One of Otto's clandestine paramours, Elke, a Swede, knew Karoline in private. According to her, Karoline was keen on bearing the future king, but didn't care much for Otto. – Now, Elke was a frustrated woman. She, an actress of UFA fame, had married old János Almásy, who, howsoever, was in need of a caring nurse rather than a sultry spouse. Otto was quite sure she would love to be his wife and queen herself.
If Otto had hoped his mother, Queen Dowager Zita, would step back, he had albeit misjudged. Zita would, of course, direct and manage everything. It was unbelievable. – But why worry? He was used to it, since a lifetime... Mama knew what was best for him. Once she had fully embraced the idea that Karoline was going to be her in–law, she would commence to do the thinking for her as well. – It was funny, mused Otto, while toying with his crown. In politics, he had no say. In private life, he had no say.
Only as stealthy lover – and as huntsman – could he really live self–determined. Well, perhaps Karoline was apt to counter Mama's meddling... Although, he might come under her sway instead... Would that be an improvement? But it might be an absorbing show. Mama wouldn't yield easily. She would fight. And Karoline had a reputation for being a tough fighter... Interesting times were lying ahead of him, obviously. Otto chuckled and put his crown into the locker. Time for lunch... Whistling, he plodded towards the dining room.
(attributed to Maria Theresa)
At the mature age of forty–two, King II Otto of Hungary experienced his mother caving in at long last. Her quest to find him a suitable foreign princess as spouse had ultimately failed, after countless attempts. But it was high time he sired a heir, wasn't it? Therefore, she eventually was accepting that he married a Hungarian aristocrat. Karoline Nádasdy was the chosen one. She was twelve years his junior, hence in best fertile age – and her family was ancient nobility and rich, very rich, even for the elevated standards of Hungarian aristocracy, just the ideal combination.
At thirty, Karoline could be considered a spinster, it was true. Hungarian girls in general married much earlier, between fifteen and twenty–three. That was all the more true for the nobility. Karoline was, however, a veritable amazon: she was riding, fencing and swimming for the respective national teams. – There had been an engagement in 1941, but the young man, a fighter pilot, had died in an air accident – just three weeks prior to the marriage. He had been a Czeszneky, a nephew of Mihály Czeszneky, the famous industrialist. Thereafter, it was said, Karoline had rebuffed all advances.
Well, until Otto had proposed to her. – Was it love? Perhaps not – or not yet. But becoming királynó ostensibly was an offer one couldn't reject. – One of Otto's clandestine paramours, Elke, a Swede, knew Karoline in private. According to her, Karoline was keen on bearing the future king, but didn't care much for Otto. – Now, Elke was a frustrated woman. She, an actress of UFA fame, had married old János Almásy, who, howsoever, was in need of a caring nurse rather than a sultry spouse. Otto was quite sure she would love to be his wife and queen herself.
If Otto had hoped his mother, Queen Dowager Zita, would step back, he had albeit misjudged. Zita would, of course, direct and manage everything. It was unbelievable. – But why worry? He was used to it, since a lifetime... Mama knew what was best for him. Once she had fully embraced the idea that Karoline was going to be her in–law, she would commence to do the thinking for her as well. – It was funny, mused Otto, while toying with his crown. In politics, he had no say. In private life, he had no say.
Only as stealthy lover – and as huntsman – could he really live self–determined. Well, perhaps Karoline was apt to counter Mama's meddling... Although, he might come under her sway instead... Would that be an improvement? But it might be an absorbing show. Mama wouldn't yield easily. She would fight. And Karoline had a reputation for being a tough fighter... Interesting times were lying ahead of him, obviously. Otto chuckled and put his crown into the locker. Time for lunch... Whistling, he plodded towards the dining room.
If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?
(Albert von Einstein)
It wasn't easy, because he couldn't ask the right questions – or, rather, he didn't get the answers he was asking for. The Limeys would still talk to him, but they, seemingly, were under orders not to betray any secrets. Now, he didn't even know what secrets they wanted to keep hidden from him. He was allowed to read the newspapers, to listen to the wireless, and to watch TV – and know nothing. All lies! The picture painted there was proof of some fertile imagination, but had nothing to do with the truth, he believed.
There had been problems, obviously, but it was hard to guess of which kind they really had been – or even were still. Seascale was sealed off from the rest of the country. The guard units had been reinforced, actually doubled, for several months. Therefore, he had concluded some kind of civil war or rebellion might be going on. But the reinforcements had been withdrawn – and nothing had ever happened... He knew that the site was kept supplied with highest priority. That made it difficult to guess what really was happening outside.
In scientific regard, the Limeys hadn't made any progress; this he could tell. Alan Nunn May, the scientific director, was a blockhead, certainly true to party principles, but inept for the job he had been assigned to. Therefore, the secret of the fusion bomb remained a secret still to him and his subordinates, and J. Robert Oppenheimer couldn't detect any notable progress. Well, that wasn't too bad – for the rest of the world...
He was wondering whether the rest of the world had already solved the riddle of fusion power. International scientific publications were no longer accessible for him. That was a massive hint towards a yes. But who had been successful? Impossible to find out... – Damn, he had been in the act of enthralling Chief Controller Maud Woodley, but the plump bitch had been redeployed to some other place before he had been able to make inroads. The new CC was a man, Nigel Tranter, a Scot from Glasgow, who was keeping aloof from everybody.
It wasn't a miserable life, not exactly. The Limeys were feeding him well – and the accommodation was adequate. But it was dull, dull past belief. – Well, he wouldn't complain, they could kill him any time, make him disappear. Why they hadn't done it already, only they themselves might know. But perhaps it was just a system glitch, a message got lost – or the decision makers had simply forgotten he still existed. He didn't know, he knew nothing... It was an outrage.
(Albert von Einstein)
It wasn't easy, because he couldn't ask the right questions – or, rather, he didn't get the answers he was asking for. The Limeys would still talk to him, but they, seemingly, were under orders not to betray any secrets. Now, he didn't even know what secrets they wanted to keep hidden from him. He was allowed to read the newspapers, to listen to the wireless, and to watch TV – and know nothing. All lies! The picture painted there was proof of some fertile imagination, but had nothing to do with the truth, he believed.
There had been problems, obviously, but it was hard to guess of which kind they really had been – or even were still. Seascale was sealed off from the rest of the country. The guard units had been reinforced, actually doubled, for several months. Therefore, he had concluded some kind of civil war or rebellion might be going on. But the reinforcements had been withdrawn – and nothing had ever happened... He knew that the site was kept supplied with highest priority. That made it difficult to guess what really was happening outside.
In scientific regard, the Limeys hadn't made any progress; this he could tell. Alan Nunn May, the scientific director, was a blockhead, certainly true to party principles, but inept for the job he had been assigned to. Therefore, the secret of the fusion bomb remained a secret still to him and his subordinates, and J. Robert Oppenheimer couldn't detect any notable progress. Well, that wasn't too bad – for the rest of the world...
He was wondering whether the rest of the world had already solved the riddle of fusion power. International scientific publications were no longer accessible for him. That was a massive hint towards a yes. But who had been successful? Impossible to find out... – Damn, he had been in the act of enthralling Chief Controller Maud Woodley, but the plump bitch had been redeployed to some other place before he had been able to make inroads. The new CC was a man, Nigel Tranter, a Scot from Glasgow, who was keeping aloof from everybody.
It wasn't a miserable life, not exactly. The Limeys were feeding him well – and the accommodation was adequate. But it was dull, dull past belief. – Well, he wouldn't complain, they could kill him any time, make him disappear. Why they hadn't done it already, only they themselves might know. But perhaps it was just a system glitch, a message got lost – or the decision makers had simply forgotten he still existed. He didn't know, he knew nothing... It was an outrage.
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
(Oscar Wilde)
Being reputable Spanish Civil War veterans and, well, confidable socialists, the Glasgow Bloodhounds had, of course, not participated in the recent riots, at least not as an association. One couldn't avouch for each and every member, obviously, but Jack Pop Eye Baxter, the chairman, knew of nothing. – But he also didn't know where Montagu Slater had gone into hiding. Thinking about it, he knew of nothing, nothing at all.
Pop Eye had spent considerable effort to make the Bloodhounds reputable. It was his survival strategy. Having volunteered for the SCW was seen as honourable commitment in Red Albion. It didn't qualify for preferential treatment, but a genuine veterans' club ought to be over and above criminal activities. – That had surprised many members. Pop Eye himself had been in prison and betterments camps how often? And now he was preaching water?
Well, it had worked. The bum–bailiffs had been surprised as well. Yet, after a while, they had accepted that the Bloodhounds had turned clean–living, kind of... At least, when the Slater Rebellion had flared up, the veterans had been out of focus. Now, invalids and old farts were hardly the stuff from which toughs were made. Hence, one had not been arrested or molested, once the government gun dogs had regained control of Glasgow.
Indeed, being reputable had paid, however one couldn't live on it. That was the part that had occupied Pop Eye most. Being considered a honourable man was fine and dandy, but it didn't fill your stomach. – Traditional petty crime didn't provide for a family, there was nothing left to steal or cheat – at least in the Bloodhounds' reach. Touching the assets of the party hacks was beyond their capabilities.
But taking it from the system worked. Pop Eye had scrutinised the methods of that London–based crime genius, whom people called The Brain. Now, highjacking whole trains was out of the Bloodhounds' league. Nevertheless, there were other ways how to acquire valuable goods. The reformed Bloodhounds qualified for guards, for example. And the system was dumb, it couldn't measure small units.
It was a gamble, for sure. Once one of Pop Eye's merry men got caught, the whole reputation would go down the drain. But this was Glasgow, home turf, Pop Eye's own country. It ought to fly, and – until now – it was going smoothly. – Persuading Montagu Slater to stay lost, however, was becoming more and more difficult. The chap was panting for revenge; he wanted to kill Wintringham in his underground bunker. Crazy, wasn't it?
(Oscar Wilde)
Being reputable Spanish Civil War veterans and, well, confidable socialists, the Glasgow Bloodhounds had, of course, not participated in the recent riots, at least not as an association. One couldn't avouch for each and every member, obviously, but Jack Pop Eye Baxter, the chairman, knew of nothing. – But he also didn't know where Montagu Slater had gone into hiding. Thinking about it, he knew of nothing, nothing at all.
Pop Eye had spent considerable effort to make the Bloodhounds reputable. It was his survival strategy. Having volunteered for the SCW was seen as honourable commitment in Red Albion. It didn't qualify for preferential treatment, but a genuine veterans' club ought to be over and above criminal activities. – That had surprised many members. Pop Eye himself had been in prison and betterments camps how often? And now he was preaching water?
Well, it had worked. The bum–bailiffs had been surprised as well. Yet, after a while, they had accepted that the Bloodhounds had turned clean–living, kind of... At least, when the Slater Rebellion had flared up, the veterans had been out of focus. Now, invalids and old farts were hardly the stuff from which toughs were made. Hence, one had not been arrested or molested, once the government gun dogs had regained control of Glasgow.
Indeed, being reputable had paid, however one couldn't live on it. That was the part that had occupied Pop Eye most. Being considered a honourable man was fine and dandy, but it didn't fill your stomach. – Traditional petty crime didn't provide for a family, there was nothing left to steal or cheat – at least in the Bloodhounds' reach. Touching the assets of the party hacks was beyond their capabilities.
But taking it from the system worked. Pop Eye had scrutinised the methods of that London–based crime genius, whom people called The Brain. Now, highjacking whole trains was out of the Bloodhounds' league. Nevertheless, there were other ways how to acquire valuable goods. The reformed Bloodhounds qualified for guards, for example. And the system was dumb, it couldn't measure small units.
It was a gamble, for sure. Once one of Pop Eye's merry men got caught, the whole reputation would go down the drain. But this was Glasgow, home turf, Pop Eye's own country. It ought to fly, and – until now – it was going smoothly. – Persuading Montagu Slater to stay lost, however, was becoming more and more difficult. The chap was panting for revenge; he wanted to kill Wintringham in his underground bunker. Crazy, wasn't it?
Always listen to experts. They'll tell you what can't be done, and why. Then do it.
(Robert A. Heinlein)
The US Federal Agency for Rocketry, generally known as Fedrock, had made considerable progress in finding tasks that were considered useful by those who controlled the means. – Originally, there had only been remote interest for the services the agency had offered to develop. – The US were a continental entity where ample modern communication lines existed already. Even Hawaii and the Panama Canal Zone, the two territories furthest away from the States, were connected to the centre by multiple cables. And the armed forces had even laid cables from Hawaii to Wake and Guam. Hence, telephone, sound radio and television could be transmitted across the whole realm.
Because of the – more or less – insular character of the individual power blocks, a wider interest for increased communication was only voiced for Meso– and South America, which, however, were already in the process of being connected to the advanced cable network. Therefore, proposals and preparations for launching communication satellites had found only rather stinted support. – This, however, had changed significantly once the US engagement in China had begun. Suddenly, Washington had been honed down to communication via ancient British and US overseas telegraph cables – and cumbersome long wave radio.
Consequently, Ira Herbert Abbott, Fedrock's director, had had the satisfaction to receive order for establishing satellite communication with the US bases in Hong Kong, Xiamen and Taipeh. That had been a home match, as everything had already been primed for such a task; even the satellite producers had been identified in advance. It had gained Fedrock quite some reputation, even if transmission was voice only – and quality was mediocre at best. With additional funds made available apace, one had succeeded in placing an advanced comm satellite in geostationary position in March 1953. Now, the bases in China were connected by voice and image in impeccable quality.
It was an unmitigated triumph for Fedrock; at a single blow, one had caught up with RRA and NASA, at least in respect to satellite operations. – It had not escaped FSO attention that Germans and Russians were preparing highly ambitious space programmes, which had to do with fighting the alleged advance of the glaciers. However, official Washington refused to believe in the coming of a new ice age. Thus, manned space missions would remain off limits for Fedrock. Observing the Arctic Circle via satellite might, however, be no bad idea. One had already lost two weather monitoring aircraft due to flash blizzards over the Labrador Strait.
Reconnaissance – or spy – satellites were known to be a speciality of NASA. Fedrock had launched a small number of experimental recce satellites, just to acquire basic knowhow. But, because the procedure was rather wasteful – and no overwhelming national interest had been claimed, one had refrained from developing it further... The test series had to be resumed now. The plan was to design a satellite that could eject up to six exposed negative films in a row. If one film roll was dropped per week, such a satellite could be active for six weeks, which was considered an excellent cost–benefit ratio.
Ira H. Abbott was chuffed. At long last, Fedrock had gained national importance – and recognition for a mission soundly accomplished. Nevertheless, he had read the FSO dossiers and knew what RRA and NASA were up to. Inevitably, one was going to fall behind again, if manned space missions remained a no–no. – And to be honest, the film roll dropping business was awkward, even if no technical alternative existed. The ideal means for observing what was happening around the North Pole was – a manned space station.
(Robert A. Heinlein)
The US Federal Agency for Rocketry, generally known as Fedrock, had made considerable progress in finding tasks that were considered useful by those who controlled the means. – Originally, there had only been remote interest for the services the agency had offered to develop. – The US were a continental entity where ample modern communication lines existed already. Even Hawaii and the Panama Canal Zone, the two territories furthest away from the States, were connected to the centre by multiple cables. And the armed forces had even laid cables from Hawaii to Wake and Guam. Hence, telephone, sound radio and television could be transmitted across the whole realm.
Because of the – more or less – insular character of the individual power blocks, a wider interest for increased communication was only voiced for Meso– and South America, which, however, were already in the process of being connected to the advanced cable network. Therefore, proposals and preparations for launching communication satellites had found only rather stinted support. – This, however, had changed significantly once the US engagement in China had begun. Suddenly, Washington had been honed down to communication via ancient British and US overseas telegraph cables – and cumbersome long wave radio.
Consequently, Ira Herbert Abbott, Fedrock's director, had had the satisfaction to receive order for establishing satellite communication with the US bases in Hong Kong, Xiamen and Taipeh. That had been a home match, as everything had already been primed for such a task; even the satellite producers had been identified in advance. It had gained Fedrock quite some reputation, even if transmission was voice only – and quality was mediocre at best. With additional funds made available apace, one had succeeded in placing an advanced comm satellite in geostationary position in March 1953. Now, the bases in China were connected by voice and image in impeccable quality.
It was an unmitigated triumph for Fedrock; at a single blow, one had caught up with RRA and NASA, at least in respect to satellite operations. – It had not escaped FSO attention that Germans and Russians were preparing highly ambitious space programmes, which had to do with fighting the alleged advance of the glaciers. However, official Washington refused to believe in the coming of a new ice age. Thus, manned space missions would remain off limits for Fedrock. Observing the Arctic Circle via satellite might, however, be no bad idea. One had already lost two weather monitoring aircraft due to flash blizzards over the Labrador Strait.
Reconnaissance – or spy – satellites were known to be a speciality of NASA. Fedrock had launched a small number of experimental recce satellites, just to acquire basic knowhow. But, because the procedure was rather wasteful – and no overwhelming national interest had been claimed, one had refrained from developing it further... The test series had to be resumed now. The plan was to design a satellite that could eject up to six exposed negative films in a row. If one film roll was dropped per week, such a satellite could be active for six weeks, which was considered an excellent cost–benefit ratio.
Ira H. Abbott was chuffed. At long last, Fedrock had gained national importance – and recognition for a mission soundly accomplished. Nevertheless, he had read the FSO dossiers and knew what RRA and NASA were up to. Inevitably, one was going to fall behind again, if manned space missions remained a no–no. – And to be honest, the film roll dropping business was awkward, even if no technical alternative existed. The ideal means for observing what was happening around the North Pole was – a manned space station.
Progress is not accomplished in one stage.
(Victor Hugo)
Only from the air, the whole scope of ongoing construction became visible. The helicopter, a THW Kolibri, was circling above Inga at a height of three hundred metres. Actually, it wasn't the Inga on the right bank of the Congo, but the opposing one on the left bank. The initial conception had put the reactor farm to the right bank Inga, which had a subsurface of solid rock and was flood–proof. But here, the backcountry couldn't be considered flood–proof by all means; a very large flood might cut off the site and destroy the land lines of communication. Hence, Inga on the left bank had been chosen.
This area was situated at least one hundred metres above the Congo, had a subsurface of solid rock and was absolutely flood–proof, but was rather hillocked – or rather had been... It was an enormous digging terrain of ten by five kilometres right now, where the ground was being prepared for the various installations to be constructed.
The reactor farm with six pressurised heavy-water uranium machines was only a small part of the ensemble. It would be supplemented by the extraction and reprocessing site. – Bomb production, however, would not take place at Inga. The military had chosen a secret place somewhere else for that.
At first, Max Sikuku hadn't realised the total extent of construction to be implemented. He only had thought of the reactor farm and the reprocessing plant. But the work force also needed accommodation. Kindergärten, schools and hospitals were required, as were shops and leisure and sports facilities. Police and fire brigade had to find duty stations. The armed forces wanted barracks and bunkers. Roads and rail lines had to build, an airport and power lines. Altogether, a new town had to be created from scratch.
Max was looking down on the bulldozers, excavators and dump trucks milling around in apparent disorder. Only the stationary cranes were providing some orientation. On the other backseat, a photographer was making photographs. He belonged to the coordinating staff. They were always doing that, they had explained. When a VIP visitor was given a helicopter ride, they took the opportunity to photograph the site – just to document construction progress.
The wider panorama was magnificent. The Congo hereabouts was in the process of flowing down the Livingstone Falls, a succession of enormous rapids starting at Lake Nkunda three hundred kilometres to the northeast. Actually, it was almost the final segment, as the falls were ending at Matadi, forty kilometres downstream from Inga. The Congo wasn't navigable here. – But the height difference might be utilised to provide electrical power. This aspect, however, had been deferred, after the decision to construct a nuclear site at Inga had been reached.
The experimental site at Utete was working without glitches – so far. Completion of Inga would take approximately five years. Then, Middle Africa could start to produce steropium and thus atomic bombs. – But: Utete was only working because one finally had bought parts from Germany costing an arm and a leg. And the quality problem was persevering. Also for Inga, vital components had to come from Germany. It was a crying shame. Well, one – the MALU, the party of entrepreneurial freedom – was working on it. And Max, as minister responsible for education, was a key player in this effort.
Okay, he had seen enough. Max signalled the pilots to return to base. Unfortunately, the photographs were classified secret. They wouldn't give him copies. – But the optical impression was intense. Well, in his youth he had seen the construction site of the Rift Valley Bridge; those pictures were still vivid in his memory. He assumed the images of Inga would be equally lasting. – In this early phase, there were no quality problems. So, one had two or three years still to solve the issue.
(Victor Hugo)
Only from the air, the whole scope of ongoing construction became visible. The helicopter, a THW Kolibri, was circling above Inga at a height of three hundred metres. Actually, it wasn't the Inga on the right bank of the Congo, but the opposing one on the left bank. The initial conception had put the reactor farm to the right bank Inga, which had a subsurface of solid rock and was flood–proof. But here, the backcountry couldn't be considered flood–proof by all means; a very large flood might cut off the site and destroy the land lines of communication. Hence, Inga on the left bank had been chosen.
This area was situated at least one hundred metres above the Congo, had a subsurface of solid rock and was absolutely flood–proof, but was rather hillocked – or rather had been... It was an enormous digging terrain of ten by five kilometres right now, where the ground was being prepared for the various installations to be constructed.
The reactor farm with six pressurised heavy-water uranium machines was only a small part of the ensemble. It would be supplemented by the extraction and reprocessing site. – Bomb production, however, would not take place at Inga. The military had chosen a secret place somewhere else for that.
At first, Max Sikuku hadn't realised the total extent of construction to be implemented. He only had thought of the reactor farm and the reprocessing plant. But the work force also needed accommodation. Kindergärten, schools and hospitals were required, as were shops and leisure and sports facilities. Police and fire brigade had to find duty stations. The armed forces wanted barracks and bunkers. Roads and rail lines had to build, an airport and power lines. Altogether, a new town had to be created from scratch.
Max was looking down on the bulldozers, excavators and dump trucks milling around in apparent disorder. Only the stationary cranes were providing some orientation. On the other backseat, a photographer was making photographs. He belonged to the coordinating staff. They were always doing that, they had explained. When a VIP visitor was given a helicopter ride, they took the opportunity to photograph the site – just to document construction progress.
The wider panorama was magnificent. The Congo hereabouts was in the process of flowing down the Livingstone Falls, a succession of enormous rapids starting at Lake Nkunda three hundred kilometres to the northeast. Actually, it was almost the final segment, as the falls were ending at Matadi, forty kilometres downstream from Inga. The Congo wasn't navigable here. – But the height difference might be utilised to provide electrical power. This aspect, however, had been deferred, after the decision to construct a nuclear site at Inga had been reached.
The experimental site at Utete was working without glitches – so far. Completion of Inga would take approximately five years. Then, Middle Africa could start to produce steropium and thus atomic bombs. – But: Utete was only working because one finally had bought parts from Germany costing an arm and a leg. And the quality problem was persevering. Also for Inga, vital components had to come from Germany. It was a crying shame. Well, one – the MALU, the party of entrepreneurial freedom – was working on it. And Max, as minister responsible for education, was a key player in this effort.
Okay, he had seen enough. Max signalled the pilots to return to base. Unfortunately, the photographs were classified secret. They wouldn't give him copies. – But the optical impression was intense. Well, in his youth he had seen the construction site of the Rift Valley Bridge; those pictures were still vivid in his memory. He assumed the images of Inga would be equally lasting. – In this early phase, there were no quality problems. So, one had two or three years still to solve the issue.
The urge for destruction is also a creative urge!
(Mikhail Bakunin)
It was ignoble, utterly disgusting, an unsavoury spectacle. These folks simply had no dignity. They were falling for those vile demagogues promising them freedom and prosperity. It could only end in sin and disgrace, inevitably. Western values were nothing but smoke and mirrors. Abandoning shariah for the vague promise of liberty, equality and fraternity in the impious French style was plainly foolish. But the corrupt squallers had caught hearts and minds of the common people, who were weening for the fuzzy dream of a bright future.
It was a French trap, beyond question. They had planted this Trojan horse. It was their revenge. They were taking bitter vengeance for the loss of the littoral. If they couldn't have it, they would at least sow discord and heresies – and leave behind a country mired in chaos and perdition. – It would be a putrid revolution, where the nancified masses of the littoral ran after the false gods of western civilisation. Al Zayer, with its tiny population, would simply be absorbed into the seething cauldron.
There was nothing he could do to prevent this outcome, that was galling him in particular. For long and dour years he had fought the French, had killed many, maimed more. And now, they were codding him, cocking a snook at him. – But they were reckoning without their nemesis, Abdelmalek. Well, it was going to be his final action, definitely, and it was going to be a banger, by chapter and verse.
The French prime minister, a certain Paul Reynaud, had come to El–Behdja for releasing the FOM to independence. With his speech, to be held in front of the Prefecture, he would hand over responsibility to the president of the newly elected parliament. Thereafter, the withdrawal of the French would commence. – It was a pity their king, Louis Philippe II, was staying at home.
It was hot; Abdelmalek was sweating in his disguise. Under the fair wig, sweat beads were threatening to run down the pastel pink painted face. The explosive belt – looking like a standard police bullet–proof vest – was weighing him down. – But he could already hear the commotion: the VIP caravan was approaching. He was craning his neck. Yes, they were coming.
The stupid people started cheering. His 'colleagues' left and right were intensifying their grip. Abdelmalek played along. As part of the police cordon, he was virtually invisible. He had preyed upon a unit divide. So, the guy to his left was – hopefully – believing he belonged to the right–hand unit, while the dude on the right thought he was part of the left–hand unit.
Here they were: Reynaud, accompanied by the president of the parliament and that general, de Gaulle. He let off the hands and dashed forward. There were cries. The general shouted something, his face distorting. He felt a bullet rip through his body. It didn't matter. He pressed the button...
(Mikhail Bakunin)
It was ignoble, utterly disgusting, an unsavoury spectacle. These folks simply had no dignity. They were falling for those vile demagogues promising them freedom and prosperity. It could only end in sin and disgrace, inevitably. Western values were nothing but smoke and mirrors. Abandoning shariah for the vague promise of liberty, equality and fraternity in the impious French style was plainly foolish. But the corrupt squallers had caught hearts and minds of the common people, who were weening for the fuzzy dream of a bright future.
It was a French trap, beyond question. They had planted this Trojan horse. It was their revenge. They were taking bitter vengeance for the loss of the littoral. If they couldn't have it, they would at least sow discord and heresies – and leave behind a country mired in chaos and perdition. – It would be a putrid revolution, where the nancified masses of the littoral ran after the false gods of western civilisation. Al Zayer, with its tiny population, would simply be absorbed into the seething cauldron.
There was nothing he could do to prevent this outcome, that was galling him in particular. For long and dour years he had fought the French, had killed many, maimed more. And now, they were codding him, cocking a snook at him. – But they were reckoning without their nemesis, Abdelmalek. Well, it was going to be his final action, definitely, and it was going to be a banger, by chapter and verse.
The French prime minister, a certain Paul Reynaud, had come to El–Behdja for releasing the FOM to independence. With his speech, to be held in front of the Prefecture, he would hand over responsibility to the president of the newly elected parliament. Thereafter, the withdrawal of the French would commence. – It was a pity their king, Louis Philippe II, was staying at home.
It was hot; Abdelmalek was sweating in his disguise. Under the fair wig, sweat beads were threatening to run down the pastel pink painted face. The explosive belt – looking like a standard police bullet–proof vest – was weighing him down. – But he could already hear the commotion: the VIP caravan was approaching. He was craning his neck. Yes, they were coming.
The stupid people started cheering. His 'colleagues' left and right were intensifying their grip. Abdelmalek played along. As part of the police cordon, he was virtually invisible. He had preyed upon a unit divide. So, the guy to his left was – hopefully – believing he belonged to the right–hand unit, while the dude on the right thought he was part of the left–hand unit.
Here they were: Reynaud, accompanied by the president of the parliament and that general, de Gaulle. He let off the hands and dashed forward. There were cries. The general shouted something, his face distorting. He felt a bullet rip through his body. It didn't matter. He pressed the button...