NANOMACHINES
Grant found unit A-24 and tapped on the door. It was precisely 1700 hours.
McClintock’s muffled voice called, “It’s not locked.”
Sliding the door back, Grant saw that McClintock was already speaking with a woman’s image on the wall-mounted display screen. She was a good-looking blonde, too young to be Dr. Cardenas, the nanotech guru and a nominee for the Nobel Prize. To Grant she looked more like a California surfer chick: golden curly hair, strong shoulders, and a glowing complexion.
She was saying, “Nanomachines aren’t magic wands, Dr. McClintock. You can’t say ‘abracadabra’ and have them work wonders for you.”
McClintock was sitting on the small sofa, his long legs stretched out beneath the coffee table, his eyes focused on the woman’s face. Still, he waved to Grant, gesturing toward the upholstered chair at one end of the sofa. Grant crossed the room and sat there, thinking that while all the living quarters at Farside were exactly the same size, McClintock’s room was furnished much better than the one he himself lived in.
“I understand,” McClintock said to the screen. “So tell me what you need to build a mirror with nanos.” Before she could reply, he added, “And how quickly you can do it.”
It is Cardenas, Grant realized. Must be. She must be at least sixty, but she sure doesn’t look it.
“First,” Kristine Cardenas replied, “I’d need an exact list of the elements that the mirror is made of. Elements and compounds, down to the smallest impurities. Nanomachine assemblers work at the atomic and molecular levels; they take atoms and molecules and put them together to form the macrostructure you want.”
McClintock nonchalantly waved one hand in the air. “We can get that information for you.”
The woman looked doubtful. “As I understand it, optical glass consists mainly of silicon and oxygen, but there are plenty of minor constituents, too. And they can be critical, isn’t that so?”
McClintock turned to Grant. “Is that right?”
Grant said to the screen, “The glass is a borosilicate. About ten percent is boron oxide. And you’re right: there’re other constituents, as well.”
“And you are…?” the woman asked.
Before Grant could reply, McClintock said, “This is Grant Simpson. He’s the head of my technical staff.”
My technical staff, Grant thought. The Ulcer would pucker his sphincter over that.
“I’m Kris Cardenas,” the woman said, with a warm smile.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr. Cardenas,” said Grant.
“Call me Kris. And I’ll call you Grant.”
“Okay.”
With just the hint of a frown on his chiseled features, McClintock said, “You can get Dr. Cardenas a detailed list of the ingredients in the optical glass we use for the mirrors, can’t you?”
Grant started to answer, but Cardenas interrupted, “If you can simply give me a few samples of the glass, I can program a set of nano disassemblers to take them apart, atom by atom. That’ll give us the exact specifications we need.”
“Disassemblers?” Grant asked. “You mean gobblers?”
Cardenas’s face went cold. “Disassemblers,” she said flatly. “I use them in my lab here for analyses. They do not get outside of my lab, and even if they did they are programmed to shut themselves down at a fixed time limit. The area can also be bathed in high-intensity ultraviolet light, which deactivates the nanos quite thoroughly. There’s no need to worry about gobblers getting loose.”
“Okay, okay,” Grant said, raising both his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not a nanoluddite. I’m not scared of nanomachines.” It wasn’t exactly true, he knew, but close enough.
McClintock soothed, “Of course not. That’s why we’re asking for your help, Dr. Cardenas.”
She dipped her chin a notch in acknowledgement.
“Now then,” McClintock went on, “once you know exactly what the ingredients are, how soon can you produce a hundred-meter mirror for us?”
“How soon can you gather together all the necessary raw materials?”
McClintock shrugged elaborately and turned to Grant again.
“The glass is actually manufactured in Selene,” Grant said. “They ship it here in chunks and we melt it down at our mirror lab.”
“Then I should talk with the people at the glass factory,” said Cardenas.
“I suppose so,” McClintock said. “But once you have the raw materials, how quickly can—”
Cardenas interrupted, “A hundred-meter mirror? To what tolerance?”
Grant answered, “It’s got to be curved to within a fraction of the wavelength of visible light.”
“Oof! That’ll take a bit of doing.”
“We spend months polishing the surfaces to the correct figure,” Grant said.
With a trace of a smile, Cardenas said, “If you can give me the exact specifications, my little guys ought to be able to do it in a week or so. Maybe ten days, on the outside.”
“A week?” McClintock gasped.
“On that order,” she replied.
“That … that would be fine,” McClintock said, grinning at the screen. “Wonderful.”
Grant added, “I’ll talk to the head of the glass factory, tell him to give you a few samples of the optical glass they make for us.”
“And I’ll get on this as soon as the samples are in my hands,” said Cardenas.
“You’ll handle this personally?” McClintock asked.
Cardenas gave him a rueful little smile. “I don’t have much of a staff here. Yes, I’ll make room in my schedule to handle this myself.”
“Fine,” McClintock repeated. “Just fine.”
“Thank you,” Grant said.
Cardenas smiled again, warmer this time, and said, “That’s it, then. I’ll call you again when I get the glass samples. Good-bye.”
McClintock said, “Good-bye for now.”
The screen went dark. McClintock turned to Grant. “I want you to get over to Selene and see to it that she gets those samples with the speed of light.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Grant said.
McClintock’s expression went stony. “It doesn’t matter what you think. You get your butt over to Selene. Now.”
Grant fought down the flash of anger that surged through him. “I’ll have to clear it with Uhlrich.”
“I’ll take care of Uhlrich. You get yourself moving.”
“But—”
“No buts. I know about your work history and I know about your drug habit.”
“It’s not a drug habit!”
“Medications, then,” McClintock amended easily. “I don’t care. Can you understand that? I don’t give a damn what you swallow or inject into yourself. As long as you perform your job well, you can fill yourself with all the designer drugs you can get your hands on.”
Grant glared at him.
McClintock broke into his handsome smile again. “Don’t get so tense, Grant. We’re going to get along just fine, as long as you do your job.” Easing back on the sofa, he added, “You do the work, and I’ll take the credit. Deal?”
Grant said to himself, Another one. Just like Nate. At least he admits it openly, though.
To McClintock he grudgingly muttered, “Deal.”