Saturn Run

19.

Like watching a bunch of troops getting ready to ship out, Crow thought: somber passengers with their bags, milling around the terminal, with a few dozen anxious and sometimes weeping family members to see them off. At this point, he didn’t really expect anyone to back out. There had been a few dropouts on earlier flights, but—unknown to the passengers—they’d all been evaluated for the possibility that they might refuse to go at the last moment, and this bunch had been found to be the least likely to do that.

If somebody did, there’d be several more round-trips by the Virgin-SpaceX shuttles before the Nixon departed, which could take up an alternate crew member. Right now, Crow’s major concern was baggage. All the passengers had been required to present their baggage the day before departure, and all of it had been minutely scanned for anything that could represent a security hazard, including electronics that could be used to attack onboard systems.

Two exceptions had been made: one passenger had a rare but treatable form of cancer, and his extremely expensive medication simply hadn’t been ready because of a bureaucratic entanglement with Ameri-Med. The insurance system refused to provide a three-year supply of pills because of cost considerations, and had no way to change its mind without rewriting its software, which might cost a couple of billion dollars. Crow had called the pharmaceutical company that made the medication, and after carefully explaining the situation to the CEO, in which he pointed out the intense interest in his decision by both the President and the IRS, a batch of pills was put on a hopjet from Philadelphia and had arrived that morning.

The other exception was for a violin; the psychiatrist who owned it refused to allow an electronic scan. “If it gets ruined,” he told Crow, “I’m out nine million.”

“Couldn’t you take a cheaper violin?”

“No. It wouldn’t have the tone. I need the tone.”

Now one of Crow’s security officers, a woman named Carol, hurried up to him as he watched the crowd, and said, “We have a tiny problem. Roger Ang doesn’t want his violin x-rayed, either. He says x-raying it could damage the tone by changing the varnish at a molecular level. It’s like a rare”—she looked at a slip of paper in her hand—“Enrico Politi. He says we can x-ray the case, and has no problem with an internal fiber-optic check on the violin itself, if he can watch it to make sure we don’t harm the instrument.”

Crow nodded. “All the musical instruments will be loaded at the same time in the cargo hold. Do the fiber-optic check, tell him that I’ve decided that an X-ray isn’t necessary. When the instruments are put on the cargo mover, pull the violin, x-ray it, and if it’s clear, put it back on the cargo mover. Just a little sleight of hand, Carol.”

“What if the tone is affected?” she asked.

“It won’t be—but there’s no arguing with that brand of assholedom. If he knows it’s been x-rayed, he’ll hear a difference and sue somebody. If he doesn’t know, he won’t. Okay?”

“Okay.” She hurried off.

The crew of ninety-one would be taking along eighty-one musical instruments of all varieties. They were a brilliant, disciplined bunch, and people who were both brilliant and disciplined often played musical instruments.

“There’s a clear connection there—people who learn a musical instrument early in life are basically learning to discipline themselves, and that carries over to other intellectually demanding fields,” said one of the shrinks who’d been hired to consult on possible shipboard problems. He’d recommended sending along both personal musical instruments and a supply of loaner instruments, so that those who didn’t actually play an instrument could learn en route.

“If you can get a bunch of bands going, there’s no better way to build teamwork and tie people together,” he told Crow. “It’s also a great way to kill time, for people without a lot to do.”

The manifest now included four electronic pianos.

Crow checked his implants: July 21, 2067, a hundred and forty-three hours to departure.