João Gordeenko was not at his best. As deputy czar of resource allocation, he'd worked till 0320 that morning, then slept on his office couch till 0730. Which had left time for only a hasty shower and shave, a cup of strong coffee, and to get dressed before receiving his first visitor. Breakfast would wait, probably till lunch.
The visitor, a new staff assistant, was very pretty, very bright, and very sure of herself. And well recommended. He hoped that Sarah Asayama would prove as able as her recommender claimed, but he was skeptical. She spoke well, but she'd never had anything approaching the responsibility of her new position. There was a lot of that in the burgeoning war bureaucracy. It was unavoidable. There were too few people with the knowledge and experience needed. Some would learn successfully on the job, coping, innovating. Others would be replaced, sent elsewhere.
With Sarah Asayama's looks and personality, people tended to pull for her success, but as she talked, Gordeenko's misgivings grew like his work load. He wasn't surprised. This first assignment was in part a test of her readiness for it.
She sat six feet to his right, displaying her three-quarter profile as she spoke, while controlling the screen display with her pocket key pad. Under other circumstances he might have better appreciated her looks, but her words and the chart on his wall screen held his attention. "Unfortunately," she was saying, "the invaders' approach is taking them through a sector well populated with colonies, and on an approximate intersect with Terra."
Does she imagine I don't already know that? he wondered.
She switched charts. "Here is a list of the planets we need to evacuate, and their populations. The job will require a minimum of 2,900 ships, depending on the types selected." She turned, looking crisply professional. "I'm afraid it cuts rather heavily into the total."
Great Gautama! he thought. An intelligence score of 123, and no concept whatever of the overall problem!
Again she switched charts. "I've listed existing ships by types and classes, with their estimated capacity for stasis lockers. I realize this draft proposal requires review, and perhaps some modification, but given the colonial populations, we have little choice." Once more she turned to Gordeenko. "The less review time, the better. We need to refit the ships as quickly as possible, and get them under way."
Gordeenko nodded thoughtfully. It seemed to him he needed to make an impact on the young woman. But be kind, João, be kind, he reminded himself. "I agree," he told her. "The process must be expedited." He laid his hand on his desk key pad. "But first— First I need to clarify some things for you. I see now that you needed a much fuller briefing than you were given." His thick hairy fingers touched keys. The chart on the screen was displaced by another. "As you have implied, the number of merchant vessels in the Commonwealth is finite. As for warships—we have no fleet, as I'm sure you know. Only a limited array of prototypes. And of course a few score patrol ships, small, with utterly inadequate armament, designed only to discourage piracy. Just now, every shipyard in the Commonwealth has begun building warships, or is being overhauled in order to build warships."
The young woman interrupted, honestly confused, her crispness gone. "But sir! I was talking about ships already built."
He raised a constraining hand. "I'll get to that, but first you must understand the problem. There are seventeen shipyards on Terra, eleven others scattered from Luna to Titan, and three each in the Epsilon Indi and Epsilon Eridani Systems. And that is all. In the entire Commonwealth! Not enough, Ms. Asayama! Not nearly enough!" Now Gordeenko began to apply the heat. "We are beginning or planning the construction of more than a hundred other shipyards, of which fifty must be operating inside of six months! Can you conceive of what that means? Everything must be done differently than ever before, if only because of the extreme shortage of shipwrights!"
"But sir . . . "
Gordeenko waved off her interjection. "And how will we provide the metals? Or transport the shipyard machinery?" His intensity caught and held her. "The demand on existing shipping will be extreme. Most of the new shipyards will be in space, in the belts of the various systems. And where will the workers live? In ships, Ms. Asayama! Hastily converted dormitory ships! The same is true for the thousands on thousands of new asteroid miners and smelter workers who will provide the metals!"
Sarah Asayama looked ready to collapse. She'd known that the Commonwealth was drastically unprepared for this war, but she'd never considered what dealing with it might involve. She'd given no attention to media discussions of such matters. On her brief internship her days had been long, spent on her own narrow duties. While away from the office, her attention had been on theater and young men. Thus Gordeenko's exposition had been overwhelming.
"That," he added quietly, "is a very brief summary. Very very brief. I'd assumed you'd ask questions, where you didn't know." It struck him then that she hadn't known she didn't know. "Like every other war activity," he went on, "we suffer a great lack of suitably prepared personnel. Thus we turn to persons like yourself: bright, energetic, patriotic . . . but with limited relevant experience, or none at all."
Reviewing the problems for her, he realized, had stirred his emotions—a mixture of repressed anxiety and dismay at the enormity of the task. Pausing, he inhaled deeply, and shifted gears. "We expect to evacuate not more than forty to fifty percent of the colonial populations in the invasion corridor. It may prove to be more, but we're starting with that estimate. Consider: most colonies grew from religious or ethnic groups or political dissidents who withdrew into space to live in their own narrow communities. And to a considerable degree, the original colonists have forwarded their beliefs through the generations. Thus we expect that many of their people will decide to stay at home. To take their chances where they are.
"Many colonies are so distant, the aliens will reach them before evacuation ships can. You've already allowed for that."
He exhaled heavily, and brushed back his thick pompadour. "Aim at fifteen hundred ships. Get with Al Vorselen, the director of transport; he knows what there are and where. Sort out the possibilities with him."
She stared. "But Mr. Gordeenko! We can't leave people out there! They'll be killed! We can't just abandon them!"
His gaze hardened, and his voice became crisp. "If you have a magic wand, Ms. Asayama, I grant you all the ships you can conjure out of nothing. Or better yet, conjure the aliens back to wherever they came from. Meanwhile, tell Vorselen that you and he must give me your final figures no later than tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" she squeaked.
"By 1600 hours. And the figures must be realistic. Then I can start requisition proceedings. They'll go swiftly; I have the necessary authority." He made a shooing motion. "Go now."
As she reached for the door, he stopped her with a closing statement, his voice low and confidential. "And, Sarah, do not think of it as saving people. Because if the invader isn't stopped, we're all dead. The evacuees, you, me—all of us. Dead! So think of your ships as transports bringing military and labor recruits to Terra. But do NOT call them that, not to anyone. Not to your sister, your boyfriend—anyone. The evacuees are vital to us, my dear. Vital to the human species."
She paled and nodded, then hurried out. It seemed to João Gordeenko that she really did understand. She might work out after all; he'd know tomorrow before supper.
He hadn't mentioned the problems of training qualified workers, qualified ship's crews, qualified fighting men. He hadn't wanted to shock her into coma. Looking at his own chart, still on the wall screen, Gordeenko felt overwhelm wash over him. Opening a desk drawer, he took out a small bottle of vodka flavored with Vaccinium myrtillus. For just a moment he hesitated, then removed the cap, took a swig, and felt the heat spread through his belly. With sudden resolve he stepped to his small sink and poured the rest down the drain. The solution to overwhelm was not alcohol. It was more sleep, and working smart. Starting today he would quit at midnight. Or . . . better make that one o'clock, then sleep till seven. And during the day take two twenty-minute naps. One at least.
He was fooling himself of course.