Friday 10 December 1999:
1250hrsUT
IT WAS A glum meeting.
The Farside Astronomical Observatory had briefly been a thriving center of exciting exploration. The vast array of steerable twenty-meter radio dish antennas seemed to fill the Sea of Moscow—at least, all that was visible from Farside's main dome. Up on the ringwall crest stood the spidery 397 framework of the thousand-centimeter optical telescope and its clusters of electronic amplifiers and satellite telescopes. The UV and infrared, the x-ray and gamma ray detectors. The constant shuttle of eager young men and women, bal- anced by the older, more patient, but no less eager permanent staff. The computer links. The thrill of searching the universe for knowledge, for life, for intelligence.
Now Farside was like a ghost town.
Kinsman slouched back in a webchair, letting his mind drift from the droning voices of the men and women around the table. He stared through the conference room's window at the gleaming telescope framework outside. The largest opti- cal telescope ever built, sitting in the airless open of the lunar plain, unattended and useless.
The sky out there looked dark and empty without the Earth to brighten it. The astronomers loved that; it made Farside a perfect site for their research. But it made Kinsman uneasy, frightened at the deepest level of his being. Earth was never in the sky, here on the far side of the Moon. What if it was gone when he returned to the near side?
"The only remaining item to be discussed," Dr. Mishima was saying, his soft voice slow and measured, trying hard not to reveal the bitterness he felt, "is the protective dome for the thousand-centimeter."
"I have examined the cost figures," said one of the Russian administrators. "The dome is too expensive for our current budget allocation."
Dr. Mishima drew in his breath. "If the observatory is to be shut down the equipment must either be transported to Selene or protected from meteoric erosion, so that it can be used again—when the times are more favorable and the gods of the budgets are more kindly disposed toward astronomy."
What the hell's the matter with Diane? Kinsman asked himself, staring out at the empty sky. Five days now and she hasn't answered my calls. Since she got Pierce's job. Is that all she wanted from me?
One of the Americans was saying, "It's not that we want to abandon Farside. They just haven't given us the money to keep it open."
"I understand that you regret this unfortunate turn of events more than words can express," Dr. Mishima said with 398 elaborate politeness. "Still, it is imperative to think of the future. I cannot believe that astronomical research will cease entirely and forever ..."
"Keep it open," Kinsman heard himself say.
They all jerked with surprise and turned toward him:
Mishima, up at the head of the table, the Americans and Russians (sitting on opposite sides, Kinsman noted wryly), the three men and four women representing the other nations that had staff or equipment investments in Farside, and Piotr Leonov.
It was Leonov, sitting directly across the table from Kinsman, who asked, "What did you say?" The expression on his face was hard to read: almost a smile, eyes curious, as if he agreed with Kinsman but was not certain he had heard him correctly.
"I said we should keep Farside open. It would be a tragedy to close this place down."
"I agree," said Leonov. "But the funds have been cut off. It's the only thing our two governments have been able to agree on, all year."
Fuck them both, Kinsman said to himself. Aloud, "Dr. Mishima, just how much do you need to keep going here? You've got the big equipment and the computers and life- support and housekeeping stuff. What else do you need?"
