Whatever’s going on this afternoon, it must be quite the operation considering NASA is supposed to be closed. An additional 11 badge numbers on the sitemap belong to our folks, mostly engineers, crane operators, photographers and explosive experts. Taking a left at a frozen-over field of solar panels that aren’t generating electricity at the moment, I ask ART to give me a glimpse of the Gantry.
He connects to the live feed, and I hear a low-pitched diesel rumble and hydraulic humming, a cherry picker BEEP-BEEPING its warning. It’s piloted by an engineer named John from SNC, I know from his badge number and accompanying information. Bulky and restrained in his heavy clothing, safety harness and inflatable life vest, he rides the bright-yellow work platform through the wintry air.
He’s headed toward the full-size test model of a spacecraft suspended from a crane by a thick steel cable. A concept vehicle I’ve not seen before, let me add, 10 tons of aluminum, I estimate, the test model bullet shaped, white with gray metal plates covering the openings where thrusters and other components are built into the real deal, I imagine.
The engineer named John takes his foot off the switch, the edge of the cherry picker’s mobile platform stopping a kiss away from the multimillion-dollar test model. Opening the hatch with a socket wrench, he unplugs the data cable that’s been supplying power, and no question there’s a boatload of electronics inside.
There will be accelerometers, and all sorts of sensors for measuring motion, torque, pressure, position, force. Plus, strain gauges, load cells, software for data loggers and acquisition systems.
“Since when does SNC have a crewed space capsule in the works?” I wonder out loud, my suspicions gathering.
“Unauthorized,” ART replies as I drive through fields blanketed white.
“It’s not really a question because obviously they have one. I’m looking at it. How long has it been in development?”
“Unauthorized.”
“Well, with the exception of their Dream Chaser spaceplane, SNC is in the business of transporting cargo, not astronauts, last I heard,” I’m feeling territorial again.
ART has no comment.
“But that can’t be what this is because you generally don’t drop-test unmanned vehicles, cargo capsules. And that’s not what this thing looks like anyway.”
Silence.
“Well, if the test model they’re about to splash down includes crash dummies, then I’m going to be unhappy,” I get around to why I’m offended. “You can understand it, right?”
“I’m not sure of your question . . .”
“Connect me to the camera system inside the test model so I can see who or what’s inside,” I do my best to sit on my growing impatience.
“Unauthorized.”
“Well, then show me the full-scale anthropomorphic test devices inside the Gantry hangar, please.”
When he does, it’s like I’m spying on my kids with a nanny cam, checking on my collection of life-size dummies crowded in a corner amid a clutter of workbenches, tools, sensors, and anatomical pieces and parts. My faithful crew are male, female, adults and children, all of them good sports about being burned, broken, banged, bounced, badly stirred and shaken.
Simulating your average humans, the test devices with their deadweight movable limbs are too difficult to transport or lift without mechanical assistance. So, they live in their hospital-surplus wheelchairs, dressed in hooded Tyvek jumpsuits or scrubs, tennis shoes, a few sporting safety glasses.
Slumping a little, they always look a bit dispirited and put upon, their flesh-toned plastic hands limp in their laps, and somebody’s missing.
“Bump, Bang and Crush. Twister, Striker and Breaker,” I take an inventory. “I see Crackle and Pop but where’s Snap?” I ask, passing empty buildings and parking lots. “They’d better not be using her without checking with me first.”
The adult female mannequin is about my size, racially generic and nondescript with her lack of hair, 1,000-yard stare, and on and off over recent months I’ve given her quite the makeover. A new shoulder liner, spine box, and scapulae. Also, a modified neck base, and various pelvis replacement parts. Best of all, she’s packed with an embarrassment of sensors, many of them the same ones implanted inside Carme and me.
“The full-scale test device you refer to as Snap is currently unavailable,” ART informs me.
“Show me where she is,” I demand but not impolitely.
“Unauthorized.”
“Is she inside that SNC test model they’re about to drop?”
“Unauthorized.”
“Please log me into the camera system set up inside it,” I try again. “I want to see if Snap is strapped in, maybe to see how much of a load is on her spine when she hits the water.”
“Unauthorized,” and there’s no point in badgering him further.
“I get it, Dick or someone doesn’t want me knowing the details, don’t ask me why. Although he did say he’d hook up with me at the Gantry at some point,” I reason. “So, maybe he intends to tell me in person what’s happening, and what the big secret is.”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t either, ART. I don’t know much it seems,” as I plow through snow past Building 1230, home of the Autonomy Incubator for intelligent machines.
Drones of all shapes and sizes deploy from the top floor through a retractable hatch in the roof, their exercise yard a large outdoor netted area. All is quiet, no sign of anything amiss, but there’s a problem on East Taylor Street, bright red painted on my features-integrated map, the FIND in my heads-up display.
A water main must have cracked, turning the road and acres of grass on either side into a skating rink.
“We need to call this in for maintenance . . . ,” I start to say when my truck’s beefy ceramic brakes suddenly slam, sending me into a slide.
16
“WHAT THE . . . ?” I yell, skating across the glassy road as a fox safely scampers away thanks to sensors that reacted before I could.