Are you ready for [ahem] evacuation?

April 22 is Earth Day, a day for...well, at least being aware of the fragile beauty of our world and perhaps, for the more ambitious among us, doing something tangible to maintain or improve the world around us, like planting a tree, starting a garden, mowing the lawn, going vegan, whatever strikes your fancy and doesn't hurt anyone. (I know that's a long sentence, but it is grammatically correct and syntactically plausible, so I'll let it stand.)

On the theme of Earth Day, what could be more closely related to the Earth than earth itself? More specifically soil. Yet more specifically, night soil. And what we do with it. Still more specifically, what we do with it when we have left the Earth for the void. That's a clever segue to a discussion of space toilets. And THAT is a clever segue to an excerpt from THE DREAM LAND Book III.

The final act of the novel involves the preparations for a planet-wide evacuation and thus the construction of interstellar space vessels. Our heroine Gina (a.k.a. Jinetta-d'Elous), having studied rocket science back on Earth before she found the interdimensional doorway that has led to her lifelong adventures on the planet Ghoupallesz, was appointed to oversee the evacuation program. At that time there were only 31 years remaining until a comet would strike the planet. Not everyone is in agreement on what to do but most are going along with the evacuation plans.

Needless to say, having no direct experience or knowledge of space toilets, research was required to be able to present a plausible case for one particular design I'm now offering to NASA free of charge. (Some, though not all, of the follow excerpt benefited from my reading of Mary Roach's book Packing for Mars, which quite adequately [or more than adequately, depending on how squeamish a reader might be] covered the problems of defecation in zero-gravity, as well as other things nobody with a standard plumbing system ever ponders.

Excerpt from THE DREAM LAND Book III "Diaspora":

In Sanduu the toilets were coming along very well. That was something to be pleased about, at least.

Gina was walked through the plant for the inspection, even got to test one of them—without an actual deposit.

“So I just squat on top of this pipe?” she asked, removing her green and blue kaftan. One of her assistants held up the opened kaftan as a kind of curtain.

The space toilet consisted of a long tube rising like an elephant’s trunk from the floor of a closet-sized capsule barely large enough for a normal-sized adult to stand upright within. The upper end was open and featured a slightly wider lip coated in ceramic. The person using the device lowered his or her back end directly down upon the ceramic ring. The oblong opening in the center of the ring, being less than the width of a human hand, made precise placement crucial. A tight seal needed to be maintained because of the suction involved. As the exiting material was released from the body, the suction within the tube would remove it completely from the person’s orifice and the tube. Jets of disinfectant would follow down the tube from the underside of the ceramic ring. For urination, the reverse position was to be used. However, that presented problems when the same device was switched on. Suction! Gentlemen needed to be cognizant of the g-forces applied to their family orbs. Ladies needed to be aware of the possible stretching effects of the suction upon their fleshy nether regions, as well.

“Can it be adjusted according to a person’s tolerance?” Gina asked quite seriously once she had hooked up her kaftan again.

“There is only one setting,” said First Director of Aerospace Toiletry Services Rogar-Tolourus. “We expect to give lessons on the proper way to sit on the device. As you can see, in the forward-facing position, a male would not have the capacity there for the orbs to slip into the tube. Not even width for accidental slippage. Females would be more at risk since...because of their...parts.”

“Could a supplemental panel be added to the ceramic ring or held in place by the user so as to restrict the area that is submitted to suction?”

“Most definitely,” said Tolourus. “Nobody wants bodily materials floating about the cabin area willy-nilly.”

Gina had to smile. She instantly translated in her head his phrase as ‘willy-nilly’ and was amused at her choice of words. Sauresk meant ‘haphazardly’ in Ghoupallêan, which was the word he had spoken, yet somehow discussing bodily fluids was better served using ‘willy-nilly.’ Poor willy. All the poor willies subjected to that suction, she thought. And the poor nillies of each female crew member!

“So each crew member must place his or her fleshy parts directly against the ceramic ring to maintain the suction area?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Is there any provision for disinfecting the ceramic ring between users?”

“Oh, yes. We thought of that.” Tolourus grinned like he did when she first removed her kaftan to test the toilet. “After the user has exited the cubicle and confirmed the closure of the hatch, there is a switch he or she presses which starts a process of irradiation. That kills all life forms within the cubicle.”

“I understand.”

“The irradiation takes about a pon so no one may use the toilet until the irradiation process is finished.”

Tolourus seemed quite proud of their product. It did the job, took minimal space, was self-cleaning, and could be fitted into any model of vessel.

“And where does it all go?” she asked, returning to a straight face.

“The suction prevents the material from escaping into the cabin environment, of course.”

He waved his hand in front of his face as though trying to expel a bad smell. She was momentarily offended. Never mind that she had boldly squatted before them to test the device.

“The materials are pulled down the tube and remain in a holding tank. From there, they are treated with appropriate chemicals and can then be used as fertilizer in the on-board garden units.”

It was beginning to make sense to her why the Sanduu facility was charged with constructing both spaceship toilets and food production units.

“If the holding tank should become full,” Tolourus explained, a little giddy, “the excess can be jettisoned into space.”

“Such a welcoming card,” she muttered with a smirk. She regarded the others in the inspection team. None were amused. “However, it is necessary. Better the feces and urine burn up being bombarded by gamma rays than staying aboard to freshen the air.”

They chuckled.

“Speaking of gamma rays,” Tolourus spoke, “I read your report. It was news to me—indeed, to many of us in the toiletry science community—yet we know the seriousness of preventing...that kind of radiation. So...given our work with various kinds of fecal matter, I believe we may have a solution.”

Gamma radiation, with its highly charged photons, could easily penetrate the walls of a spacecraft and over time do great harm to the humans inside. Building stronger vessel outer skin did not seem to be the answer. She had always considered a layer of lead in her vessel designs. Nor could she imagine a crew living inside lead-shielded flight suits for many years. The best that could be done was to reduce the effect of gamma radiation by half. Granite or concrete seemed to work well, but she could not believe a granite spacecraft would get off the ground. Right now, her job was less about how many people survived to reach their destination than getting them off this planet in time.

“There is an empty interval between the outer and inner walls of the vessel, right?”

She nodded.

“We can pack it with ordinary soil. In fact, we have a unique clay here in Sanduu that would be perfect for that purpose. And when it shifts or a gap becomes detected, it can be filled with run-off from the toilet holding tanks.”

“You want to fill the walls of our space vessels with shit?”

“According to your calculations—most impressive, by the way, for someone who is not an expert in the field of fecal properties—such organic materials should absorb the radiation, thereby reducing it. When the material should be deemed saturated, it could be flushed out into space and restocked with fresh...”

“Fresh shit.”

“Exactly.”

“So we will be out there cruising in our spaceshit?”

It wasn’t complicated. She took the word for ‘shit’ (ush) and added it to the word invented for ‘spacecraft’ (xænafi) to form the word xænush.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tolourus and everyone laughed.

Then someone broke wind.

“Don’t worry,” said Tolourus, “there will be adequate ventilation on board the vessels.”

A quick search of "space toilet" yields more than enough pictures of, for example, the Space Shuttle apparatus (above). Note the two grips for the constipated astronaut to keep his or her balance in zero-gravity. Note the plethora of hoses and tubing for complete transportation of the evacuated materials. There is plenty of ceramic surface for minimal buttock comfort, too, far more than the Sanduu Toiletworks is producing.

Not too sure what this device would leave behind, however, one wonders just how one could resist giving up anything and everything once fixed into the position. Oh, the imagination of sci-fi artists!

For short trips of the up to orbit and back variety, astronauts need only a reliable pair of diaper pants. Very similar to the smaller sized "big boy" pants marketed by diaper companies. They are undetectable beneath spacesuits, to prevent embarrassment, of course.

Watch what you eat!


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(C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

The Social Side of Annihilation...

Most science-fiction writers I've read deal with the hardware. You know, the spaceships, the propulsion systems, environmental issues, hydroponic gardens, and so forth. Or they deal with the possibilities of finding and settling inhabitable planets, with or without native inhabitants to deal with. Few, it seems to me, deal with the social issues. In this day and age of social networking, especially, it seems natural to try to understand how people might react when the news hits the fan that Mr. Comet is coming soon and he is not happy.

Excerpt from THE DREAM LAND Book III:

Our heroine, Gina, has been appointed to oversee the international project to construct interplanetary vessels, yet not everyone is in agreement with the plan....

 “I’m surprised,” said Gina, brushing her hair out of her face, “you can be so easily bought with a few hours of such a natural activity as standard intercourse.”

“I would vote for your plan no matter how we spent the night,” said Vazak--Buffalo Bob, the ambassador from Erit who wore the big furry hat.

She had called him ‘Buffalo Bob’ a couple times during the night, when in her ecstasy she could no longer hold back speaking English. He had questioned her about the name, thinking she called him a kind of drug, something called bôb. Then he had offered her a mauve-bôb for her amusement, a rare treat that left her unusually energetic on the qala. Vazak, on the other hand, being broad-shouldered and hairy, made the qala swing dangerously from one wall to the opposite wall. In the morning, when he sat on the edge of the qala, the hammock-style bed tipped down to the floor. Gina had rolled down against him and they had laughed together.

“So it’s not a matter of tricking laborers,” she told him as she lay stroking his curly brown back hair, “it’s a matter of persuasion. We are asking them to deny themselves, to give up their own reward, to give away their individuality not out of hatred or bias or a lack of value, but to accept the full knowledge of what their choice, their sacrifice, means for the entire species.”

“You make sex talk enlightening,” said Vazak with a bass rumble. “I agree with you, Kalmonê.”

“No more Kalmonê, I said.”

He grunted, feeling the pain in his head of a night with no sleep, considerations of regret dragging on his heart.

“It is not about you or me, or any one person, or any one country, as you say. I understand it is about saving something of our species to live on somewhere else.”

“Exactly, Vazak. If we can get everyone to understand they are not sacrificing themselves for nothing, they have nothing to lose, then we have a chance to convince laborers to work for the common good. And the common good is not an ark of salvation for kings and queens and their families, nor even the leaders of industry.”

“Yet we must reward those who lead us and those who put forth the money and resources to realize the creation of these ‘arks of salvation’ as you call them. Some of the other people should be selected for their knowledge and skills, whatever is needed for the flight and for the settlement beyond.”

She smiled at him, finding handsomeness in his rough features, thinking of Beauty and the Beast.

“It’s the ultimate job application,” she said, pulling herself back on topic. “It’s like ‘I am valuable enough, useful enough, that I should get a seat on the spacecraft, yet I know even though I am useful, members of my family must stay behind.’ Right? Complete objectivity. Qualifications only. ‘My family cannot join me simply because it pleases me; no, they will need to stay behind.’ That’s how it must be. Everything we do must be only for preservation of our species.”

“And the fertile females?” There was a twinkle in his eye that made her grin. “We must select the fertile ones, surely: the healthiest of both male and female if we hope to extend our species into other generations.”

“Skills, knowledge, healthy enough for a long journey, and fertile enough to prolong our species.”

“A lottery?”

“No, we cannot choose at random. We should let them apply. Let them tell us their skills and knowledge. If they pass that level, they will be tested for health and fertility.”

“Should be young, too, yet not so young they do not know anything and have no life skills however. And old people should not go, even if they are wise. That leaves me off the list.”

“And room for archives of all knowledge gathered from around the world, too.”

“Will these delegates accept such a plan?”

“If we present it this way, they will realize that most of them would not get a seat aboard the vessels and they would vote against the plan.”

“Then you must convince them of the greater good, as you said, Kalmonê. Their action, their choice, their vote is for the future of our species. Nothing less than that will survive. For what is a single person but a bag of cells and a will to keep reproducing itself? It is not our minds or our unique lives that has meaning in the calendar of the universe but the special blob of juice which is the pattern for making us anew. Or returning us to the furnace of creation.”

“You, Vazak, should give the speech. You have the words I cannot pull from my head.”

And so Vazak-Mixerran, ambassador from Nouvê, resident of Erit, half Jêpolissan, one-quarter Zetin, one-quarter Ghoupalle, beefy in a rugged, handsome way, stood on the stage and with thick arms gesturing, gave the speech of his life as Jinetta-d’Elous stood in the front row cheering him on. To the greater good of all humanity, he insisted, though he did not use the word ‘humanity’—ghoumæ was the Ghoupalle word referring to all peoples of a planet. That tactfully smoothed over endless conflicts between the major races and ethnic groups: Ghoupalle, Rouê, Zetin, Danid, Sogoê, Tigu, Jêpolissa, Kobareli, Lapugê, and the Dikondran and Bæro people on the continent of Bæronak. Instead of addressing the congregation as ‘fellow-Ghoupalles’ his word choice had the effect of calling to ‘fellow humans’ and won their attention. He outlined the plan in eloquent words Gina could only imagine being able to speak.

Sebastian could’ve done it, she mused, but he was nowhere in this time zone far into the future from the days of glory and savagery and romantic love and children who grew into heroes and goddesses—no, he was left long ago and far behind. She was on her own and could not leave. Even if she had found the right tangent to escape Kobarêl safely with her children, now there was Vazak, her buffalo-man, her lover.

The vote went as she expected, yet she never considered that she would be elected to oversee the preparations, a kind of Queen of Aerospace Industry, as it were. She would macro-manage and coordinate the various spaceports to be sure maximum efficiency was maintained through conformity to the models approved by the science council. In short, one model for all construction efforts. So everyone agreed—or enough of them to form a solid majority—that the construction of spacecraft was paramount and the resources of the planet would be put forth toward that goal: to have as many vessels ready as possible in the 31 years remaining.

Of course, not all agreed. The main refutations came from the religious legions and the optimistic hordes. The religious believed they should welcome the comet as their punishment; to attempt to avoid it would be an affront to the seven gods and nine goddesses. The F’eng followers were the worst, choosing a masochistic lifestyle full of self-inflicted pain. The most extreme of them would cut their faces to the bone in sympathy with the prophet F’eng who had no face. Their horrible blood was found everywhere they congregated, spotting park benches, street corners, door handles, and trees. They were forbidden on public transportation. All Gina knew was that their leader, a mystic named F’eng, had supposedly gained enlightenment from surviving a severe disease which left him disfigured and in perpetual pain. She thought he might be glad to end the pain as soon as a comet strike could be arranged, but he lingered on. Now his disciples carried forth his message.

The optimistic denizens of the planet believed the comet would miss them, fly right past without so much as a wink. Or, barring that, a few well-aimed rockets with explosives could be launched at the comet to break it up and send the smaller chunks harmless away. Some at the conference had proposed the idea. The scientist who stood and answered their concerns had posed the question What if we miss? If that were the case, they would have no time left to build the fleet of spacecraft in order to evacuate. Go ahead and build them, he said, so we have them if we need them; and if we do not need them then we have them available for interplanetary exploration at leisure.

The degree of error in calculating the comet’s trajectory had been accounted for, leaving the target on track, as feared. A shallow  trajectory could sweep a continent off the globe, one scientist warned. A more straight-on arrival might set in motion destructive forces which would split the planet apart. The odds were not good for buying property thirty-two years in the future.

Gina gazed at the schematics of the proposed vessel, the R-10 Transport Frame and the V-7 Residential Capsule, on easels positioned to the side of the stage. She thought of Buck Rogers, decided the gold surface would be pretty, and the tune “Ticket to Ride” came into her head, causing her to smile. Better safe than sorry. Better a tangent to escape through than a rocket. Or a blue police box.

Therefore, let us say we need 50,000 workers to build 1 spacecraft that would carry 1000 of us to a new world. None of the 50,000 workers have a seat on the spacecraft--although a few may get on it by lottery or an application stating their usefulness to the journey.

How to persuade them to work, yet give up their lives? How many administrators does such a project need? Would you work for the common good, the survival of your species? Will you get a ticket to ride?


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 (C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

Do you have a ticket to ride?

Planning for the Escape - and those who can't.

In my previous post, I gave an overview of the situation where a planet's populace must escape an inevitable collision with a comet. Fortunately (at least, for now), I was not referring to Earth but to the planet Ghoupallesz which is the setting for much of THE DREAM LAND Trilogy. Oh, it's just fiction, some may sigh in relief, but that is exactly the point: fiction gives us the means of testing theories, role-playing scenarios, practicing before we need to do the real thing.

It may be appropriate, or simply a weird coincidence, that this post falls on Easter weekend when many people around the world worship their savior and hope for salvation. Saved from a lifetime of bad choices? Or saved from an invading planetoid? Aside from questions of why God would allow a comet to destroy the Earth---or a flood, for that matter---we can still consider how society, its people and its priorities, would react when such a disaster is due.

Today, I wish to offer a sample of THE DREAM LAND Book III to illustrate one problem a futuristic society may encounter: how to deal with mass hysteria, diminishing productivity just when it is needed most to prepare for evacuation, and how schools would prepare children for their future roles on a new home world. The following excerpt is from Act III of Book III. It's still under construction, but you may get started on Book I "Long Distance Voyager" right now and Book II "Dreams of Future's Past" will be available in the summer.

[Background: Gina Parton (a.k.a., Jinetta, Queen of Fenula), the female protagonist from Book I and "long lost love" of Sebastian Talbot (a.k.a. legendary warrior Set-d'Elous) has stumbled through the wrong interdimensional doorway, thus arriving in the far future when the planet is facing total annihilation with the approach of a comet. All resources in society are directed toward preparing to evacuate the planet---at least for those who can fit on the spaceships! To provide for her two children, Gina takes a factory job....]

The first task Gina was assigned to do was put the small silver disk squarely into the slightly larger silver tube and insert a pin. then make sure the disk would spin freely within the confines of the tube. Once satisfied, she put the item back on the moving conveyor and returned her attention to making another one. It had a complicated scientific-engineering-astrophysics name she hated trying to say. Part 17-A-67009 was what she called it instead.

After a few months of making that part she was advanced to a more complex part, then again after a few weeks to a very sophisticated part which earned her the right to sit at a table covered in tiny boxes of tiny parts and assemble Part 8518-G-161695 one after another. In a typical shift of 80 peth—a peth equaling about 18 minutes, she kept teaching to her children so they would be prepared for life back on Earth—she could produce between 90 and 100 of the devices, each consisting of 38 components. She had no idea how the part was used but she was good at making them and won praise from her supervisor.

At least she was able to get work, earn food rations if no wages, and have a quaint place for her and her children to sleep at night. Her children, Zaura the precocious blonde probably in appearance an 11-year-old in Earth time and Xix the boy who became an accident of her escape journey and who was dull and expressionless, had both been assigned to an education facility. More like indoctrination, thought Gina, but she had no choice in this society. Schools did not meet formally any longer; instead, educated volunteers taught what knowledge and skills would be needed in the future aboard the vehicles that would save them from annihilation. They were taught gardening, mostly. Boys were drilled in engineering skills, and girls were taught the wonders of fertilization and reproduction. It was believed that every maiden would need to produce five offspring, preferably by five different males, in order to continue the community once they all disembarked on a new world from what was being called the xænafi—‘ether ship,’ for it was believed that outer space was filled with an invisible substance called xæ through which a vessel would move with resistance. An old tradition. Yet the name stuck: xænafi, or in the meta-sense of a multigenerational spaceship, the honorific was applied, thus xænafaxii referred to the whole project to save Ghoupalle-kind from an undeserved fate.

The schools also taught about the proper use of the colored bôb medication system, to which she secretly objected. She needed to keep her wits and focus on her delicate task. No room for sedation or anti-depression drugs or something to feign comatose calmness for the anxiety-prone. Regular warnings were sounded throughout the day: “If you feel troubled, now is the time to pop a bôb” or “The administration recommends black-bôb today; if you do not have black-bôb available, two blue-bôb will be sufficient to get you through today’s anxiety” and “Due to the latest astronomical report, administration recommends popping one black-bôb now and a second black-bôb after the evening meal for maximum calm.” Often right in the middle of the shift a co-worker would break down and sob, overcome by thoughts of the end days to come.

No, they can’t have the population in a panic, thought Gina, remembering her first day on the job when as soon as she stepped outdoors a coworker directed her attention to the sign advising her to pop a white-bôb now and a green-bôb after the evening meal. There was not much for an evening meal, anyway, consisting of tubes of this, crisps of that, something labeled ‘vegetable substance’ and another labeled ‘hearty grain’ that looked like someone’s vomit. Worse tasting than the food rations she had bartered for with those five miners...what, almost two years before? The green-bôb also repressed hunger, thankfully. That schedule was to be  followed with a red-bôb after the morning meal and a pink-bôb upon arriving at one’s work station. Of course, she did none of that and lied about her consumption patterns. It was voluntary although when properly bôbbed the average worker could meet maximum production and thus gain recognition and promotion—and extra food rations. She worried about what her children were being taught about the drugs, however. The school provided miniature dosages of blue- and green-bôb, and purple-bôb was recommended for unruly children. They had tried silver-bôb with her son, trying to spark him out of his innate dullness, but he remained unresponsive. Teachers remarked on his larger than normal head and lack of hair. One of them believed he resembled, especially with his olive skin, one of the so-called ‘miracle children’ legend had foretold for the end times. Other teachers thought he was wasting resources and suggested to Gina that he be put to sleep. She feared for him, wondering which day an accident might befall him.

Someday soon she would have to leave, she contemplated as her fingers assembled the parts automatically. She had stumbled into this world through the wrong tangent and now that she was, as it were, back on her feet, she needed to keep moving. So what if these people around her were doomed? She did not need to be here to witness it. So what if they were convinced a comet was on its way to destroy the planet? She could escape with her children—back to an earlier age here on Ghoupallesz, well before any comet would arrive, or all the way back to Earth. Zaura could fit in easily enough there; she was an accurate copy of her mother: smart and golden blond. Her son Xix, however, would likely be deemed mentally disabled and not have much of a life on Ghoupallesz or on Earth. People would be kinder to him on Earth, she considered.

But where to find the tangent to exit this future place of doom? 

Not everyone on a planet will fit aboard a dozen spaceships, no matter how large the ships can be made or how tightly spaced the personal capacity might be. Mass panic would ensue: those knowing they will not be able to get aboard the escape vessels and those who believe they will or should be allowed aboard yet do not have a ticket and are scheming or working hard to try to get aboard.

Unlike the portrayal of a similar situation with massive "arks" in the film 2012, where there was no need for respiration devices, etc., those who had a place aboard were the rich who had funded construction and their personal retinue. When escaping to space, especially with the expectation of colonization, favoring the rich and famous would limit those who had knowledge and skills actually useful to to the survival of space arks.

The series of medications portrayed in THE DREAM LAND Book III "Diaspora" not only calm the populace but also enable them to perform their work in more efficient, productive ways, thereby making success more likely. For the average worker, of course, what motivation could there be to work hard to make things that will help other people survive? More money? Bonuses? A pat on the back and a sincere "thank you"? How to keep such workers working when they know years in advance that they will not be allowed aboard the escape vessels?

There will always be a limited number of tickets. Are you worthy of a ticket? What would you do for a ticket? Or would you prefer to stay behind and watch the comet come on in?

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(C) Copyright 2010-2013 by Stephen M. Swartz. All Rights Reserved. No part of this blog, whether text or image, may be used without me giving you written permission, except for brief excerpts that are accompanied by a link to this entire blog. Violators shall be written into novels as characters who are killed off. Serious violators shall be identified and dealt with according to the laws of the United States of America.

How to Escape a Doomed Planet

I admit it: the last blog post was rather lame. Me moaning about my mental maladies. Self-indulgence at its finest! Or its worst. Sorry about that. It was an exercise in invention, just me thinking aloud and pounding the keys.

But this is serious. Deadly serious. Maybe not for Earthers but for those on another world that is near (metaphorically, not astronomically) and dear to my heart. Call it a test case. How to escape a doomed planet. And where to go. 

In writing THE DREAM LAND Book III "Diaspora" I have made no secret of the main element of the storyline involving the arrival of a comet. Quite a conundrum. Fortunately, the arrival coincides with a sufficiently advanced civilization that possesses advanced technology, enough so to actually have a fair chance of dealing with the issue. Yea, them!

First, I should explain that such an event has been foretold in mythology for eons. And our tangent-hopping interdimensional voyagers have seen its approach while popping into the future on other business. So, in the "past" we have dueling prophets warning about the end of days. In the "future" we are concerned with the science of diaspora--the scattering of a population as a survival strategy.

Second, the weak link in the system is I am not a rocket scientist. Hence, I must do research on all sorts of issues, both social and technological. I do have some head-start based on my extensive reading of space-related books during a childhood in the 1960s, an interest which waned during the Shuttle era. I also can be expected to tell the tale through assorted characters, most of whom are not themselves rocket scientists. Thus, readers will get the science through the voices of non-scientists. (Remember how Sebastian sardonically replied to Chucker's question in THE DREAM LAND Book II: "I can't explain how [interdimensional doorways] work, I just know how to use them"?)

Third, and perhaps most importantly, where do we they go? From Earth, it's fairly easy: the closest star of any kind, with or without habitable planets, is the Alpha Centauri system (read all about it here) which is still about 4.36 light-years away. Considering a trip there for your next holiday? Get a preview here. (Need more info? Check this page; the good stuff is toward the bottom.)

For the good folks of Ghoupallesz, however, destinations are more limited. First around the twin suns (Abæda, the larger, yellow one, and Siila, the smaller, blue one) is the planet of Ghoupallesz orbiting at a comfortable distance. Outward from there are three other planets, thus colder, gassier, less hospitable. The second planet, Gouo, could be used as a way-station for repairs or other short-term stays but is unsuitable for permanent habitation. The other two planets are Kuraja and Sovê, gas giants. That leaves the closest neighboring systems.

Our heroine, Gina Parton (a.k.a. Queen Jinetta of Fenula), does have a background in Physics. Thankfully, she becomes instrumental in locating suitable destinations for the diaspora.

Whereas Earth's closest is 4.36 light-years, the poor travelers from Ghoupallesz must go 17.54 light-years to reach the Tumark-C system where there are three potentially habitable planets within the comfort zone. Next closest is 22.8 light-years to reach the Ubo system, which may have two habitable planets. Then comes Raal at 23.77 and Danida at 25.12 light-years. If they really want to put the pedal to the metal, they can try to reach Sol (a.k.a., Earth's very own star) at a life-stretching 101.38 light-years! (There are three closer systems than Tumark-C, at 8.11, 9.72, and 12.6 light-years, but they do not appear to have habitable planets.) 

Given the apparent necessity of long-period travel, some options remain: 

1) residential ships ("arks") where people are awake the entire voyage, living their lives aboard, or 

2) sleep through most of the trip. 

At, say, half-lightspeed, such a trip would be a manageable 35 to 100 years. Generations will be born and die enroute to the destination. This generous method would require full "hotel" accommodations, food and fuel, and a lot of "dead weight" consisting of people who have no active role in the operation or maintenance of the spacecraft who would nevertheless need to be cared for. Perhaps those people could be put into suspension on the way there. 

We would also need a propulsion system that uses little to no fuel that must be carried along. That's where the rocket scientists come in. NASA? JPL? Anybody...?

Once arriving on a distant unknown world, presuming it is suitable for long-term habitation, as studied prior to arrival, ground personnel would be needed: scientists of all categories, a security force, and construction teams to build structures. Plus other passengers whose usefulness finally gets a test in the setting up and running of a new civilization. Probably on the list of needed skills would not be athletes, entertainers, celebrities of all kinds, etc. Everyone would have to work, contribute to the new society, and most of all: procreate--but procreate with high-IQ mates who may not be passing on the most physically attractive genes.

However, let us not think too far ahead! We must be able to get off the planet, preferably well before the doomsday event. That means building a launch system to go from surface to orbit. Then an orbiting station for assembly of interplanetary vehicles. Meanwhile, further construction would continue on the surface and pieces would be shuttled into orbit to be added to the "frames" under construction there. Once completed, the crew and passengers would be shuttled up to the interplanetary vehicles. At the appointed time, those vehicles would break orbit and sail away from their home world forever.

Plenty of planning to do....

Because it will happen someday, even to Earth. Remember the dinosaurs and their brush with extinction via the Yucatan strike? Well, under the ice of Antarctica is an even larger crater from an even earlier strike!

Now for the fun part: naming the interplanetary vehicles for the mythical gods and goddesses of Ghoupallesz!


[P.S., Sebastian, or someone similar, could walk a number of specialists through a particular interdimensional doorway, thus saving them from the fate of the rocketeer groups. Or not.]

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