“Now, remember what I told you, Jake,” said Rollie Jackson. “NASA is not the enemy. Think of the agency as a trapped animal, fighting for its life.”
Jake and the retired engineer were riding in Jake’s convertible toward a meeting with Hideki Noruyaki, NASA’s associate administrator for human exploration and operations. It was early Sunday morning; Washington’s normally jam-packed streets were relatively free of traffic.
Without taking his eyes away from his driving, Jake replied, “Isn’t that a little overly dramatic, Rollie?”
Jackson shook his head and explained, “No, not at all. For nearly a generation, now, the agency has wanted to send astronauts to Mars. Neither the White House nor Congress gives a damn about Mars. They’re just willing to fund missions to the International Space Station, and every year they squeeze down a little more on that. They’re starving NASA, a little more every year.”
Jake glanced at Jackson, saw that he was dead serious.
“The greatest collection of intellect and talent in the world,” the engineer went on, “and it’s being starved to death.”
“NASA’s budget is damned near twenty billion this year,” Jake objected.
“Yes, and it’s being spent mainly on paper studies and makework programs, without any real goals.”
Before Jake could reply, he went on, “And now you come along with the private rocket companies and a program that puts NASA on the sidelines. The agency feels endangered, and I don’t blame them.”
Which side is he on? Jake wondered.
His tone lightening, Jackson said, “At least our timing is just about perfect this morning. The religious folks are already in church and the heathens haven’t gotten out of bed yet.”
Jake couldn’t help smiling as he drove his convertible, top down, through the quiet, sunny morning. He had picked up Jackson at his town house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, not far from Lady Cecilia’s home. Jackson didn’t drive, Jake had learned to his surprise.
“Never found a need to get a license,” he admitted cheerfully. “I’ve just about always lived in a city with public transportation.”
“And taxicabs,” Jake added.
Jackson nodded. “You know, Johnnie von Neumann, the genius of geniuses, did most of his best work in taxicabs. He’d hire a cab in the morning and have the driver tootle around town all day while he worked on his math.”
“No interruptions,” said Jake.
“Right.”
“Expensive, though.”
“Johnnie was wealthy. Hungarian nobility. Lived in hotels most of the time.”
And invented game theory, Jake recalled, computer operations, helped create the first atomic bombs. Genius of geniuses, all right.
Jake turned onto E Street SW and pulled up in front of the NASA headquarters building. He even found an open parking space halfway up the block.
As he climbed out of the convertible, Jackson pointed to the curbside sign that warned that parking was prohibited—on weekdays.
“Score another point for the Lord,” he said, with a grin.
Jake tapped the button that started the convertible’s metal roof rising. Once he got the roof firmly attached to the windshield’s frame, he slid out of the car and locked it.
“So what kind of a guy is this Noruyaki?” he asked.
Jackson shrugged. “Never met him. But my buddies who know him say he’s a decent type, not an old agency paper shuffler.”
“Uh-huh,” said Jake.
“He’s taking the time to talk with us on a Sunday morning,” Jackson added. “That says something.”
Jake thought it might just mean that the man had nothing better to do until the football season began.
There was only one guard in sight in the building’s lobby: middle-aged, pudgy. He waved them through the X-ray scanner without getting up from his stool.
Noruyaki’s office was on the top floor of the building: “officer country” in Jackson’s parlance. “This is where the big brass hang out,” he told Jake as they walked along the empty, silent corridors.
Up ahead, a youngish man in a Seattle Mariners T-shirt stood next to an open door. Jake had looked up Noruyaki’s dossier: he was from Seattle, his degree was from Washington State University, in business administration.
“Dr. Noruyaki?” Jake called as they approached.
He grinned boyishly. “Dr. Ross, I presume.”
“Jake.”
Noruyaki extended his hand. “And I’m Hank. Come on into the office.”
He was much younger than Jake had expected. Short, solidly built without being chubby. Dark straight hair, almond-shaped eyes of light brown.
As he led them through an outer office, Noruyaki said, “And you must be the revered Roland T. Jackson.”
Jackson said lightly, “Call me Rollie.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
“Rollie,” Jackson repeated.
Noruyaki’s office looked comfortable, not stuffy. There was a desk in the corner by the windows, but he gestured Jake and Jackson to a deep leather sofa set against the far wall and pulled up a small padded chair to face them.
“So,” he asked, “what’s the problem?”
Jake swiftly outlined how NASA was moving to take over the space plan. “And if the agency wants to be in charge,” he concluded, “the private firms will walk out on us.”
Jackson added, “And the agency will need a big boost in its appropriation, which Congress won’t vote for, and the plan will be dead.”
Noruyaki nodded sympathetically, “Ah, the bean counters. They think they run the agency.”
“So do I,” Jackson said, “unless somebody has the guts to get them under control.”
Noruyaki seemed to ignore that suggestion. Turning to Jake, he asked, “You think you can get your program funded from private sources? Without any tax money at all?”
“That’s our aim,” said Jake. “We’ve got to get Congress to agree to backing the long-term loans, of course.”
Cocking his head slightly to one side, Noruyaki murmured, “It’s an ingenious plan. But will it work?”
Jake answered, “Not if your bean counters want to turn it into another NASA operation.”
“Hmm.”
“Look,” Jake went on, “we want NASA on the team. We need your expertise, your experience. But we need you as a partner, not a boss.”
“And Sebastian’s subcommittee meets tomorrow morning,” Noruyaki muttered.
Jackson said, “May I remind you that the Mariners were oh-and-two against the Yankees in the playoffs last year, and they still beat New York?”
Noruyaki broke into a huge grin. “And went on to win the World Series.”
Smiling back at the younger man, Jackson said, “What was the motto of the old Seabees, back in World War II? ‘The impossible we do right away; the miraculous takes a little time.’”
Jake said, “The subcommittee hearing starts at ten a.m. tomorrow.”
“Just enough time to do the impossible,” said Jackson.
Still grinning, Noruyaki said, “Let me make a couple of phone calls.”