Chapter 6: Replication

Take Interstate 15 north from Salt Lake City and just before reaching Ogden, use Exit 338 and go east, towards the mountains. Just before the checkpoint at the Hill Air Force Base truck entrance, go left. That's the Hill Aerospace Museum. I was there as part of TEG (Targeted Extraction Group) for two reasons. The operating hours are from nine to four-thirty, but I was told to arrive early.

Hubris is defined as excessive pride and "defiance of the gods." For us unwashed non-believers, hubris is arrogance with the attitude that we chosen few are above the laws of Man and Nature. I take a good dose of Mark Twain and Robert Heinlein weekly to combat my own hubris. A dose of humility seems to work. History is another antidote. Hill Air Force Base was named after the Army Air Corps pilot who crashed the Boeing Model 299, the first prototype of the famed B-17 Flying Fortress. The Flying Fortress story is one of hubris and triumph over hubris. And I was at Hill Aerospace Museum to accomplish several tasks. One task had multiple goals: scan the aircraft in the museum for replication.

The museum's curator was a Kenneth Hill and Major Ployer "Pete" Hill was his great grand uncle. A cell phone call reached him in his office. I signed the guest register at the vacant reception desk—the museum wasn't open yet and the receptionist hadn't arrived—and Ken met me in the lobby. Television monitors were blank, most of the interior lights were off. Ken led me through the double wooden doors marked "authorized personnel only" and into his office.

"You mentioned something about making copies of our aircraft," Ken said.

"I have a portable scanner with me," I explained how it worked. "A small replicator is in the trunk of my car. Let me scan something you need a copy of and we will get it out of the trunk."

The item chosen was a yellow, hourglass-shaped radio called the Gibson Girl. It was an automatic radio—just extend the 800-foot antenna, plug the crank in the socket on top, and hold the radio between the knees while turning the handle for all you're worth at 80 rpm. It would automatically send a distress signal on 500 kilo-Hertz at 4.8 watts output, providing a homing signal for appropriately-equipped aircraft and ships. The antenna was a long piece of copper wire that was either lofted by a box kite or a helium balloon. The Hill Aerospace Museum "SCR-578" was a post-war model and incomplete. Crude by today's standards, I challenge you to build one from scratch! Even assymbly from a parts kit would be too much for most of today's Americans. On the other hand, a World War Two-era American wouldn't be able to turn on a modern laptop or smart tablet without further education.

For the record, I lied to Ken. There was no replicator in my car, just a transporter "disk." The actual fabrication took place in space and was sent down to my trunk roughly ninety minutes later. While that was happening Ken took me on a tour of the museum. The Genie atomic rockets on display were an example of a "dumb bomb--" an "iron bomb" that followed a ballistic trajectory with no after-launch guidance. There were smart bombs on display too—at least the bomb casings and control surfaces. The actual guidance systems may have been inside or not. Were you aware that there was also a "retarded bomb?" During the 1930's the tactic of flying at treetop level and bombing at very low altitude was tried. Problem: the bombs had the launch aircraft vector and would fly over the bomb's explosion. The World War Two solution was the "para-frag," a small parachute that braked the bomb's forward vector and allowed it to explode behind the aircraft. With the higher speeds possible in the jet age, the parachutes ripped off—so pop-out braking fins were put on the current generation of retarded bombs.

Ken led me outside to my car when I told him the radio was ready. Our path took us past the Northrop F-89 Scorpion on display outside.

"That's the same model that fired the only atomic test of the Genie," Ken lectured. "Before that, the F-89 only had six 20mm automatic cannon, and that required this all-weather fighter to get close—and often meant that the bomber wouldn't be hurt badly enough to prevent dropping its bombs. This aircraft has launchers for free-flight 2.75-inch and all 104 carried would be salvoed to destroy the target. Things were different in those days. The danger of an atomic-bomb carrying aircraft reaching its target was considered unacceptable, so exploding a 1.5 kiloton air-burst was thought to be less risky. Later, the Falcon missile armed the Scorpion."

Ken wound down as I triggered my remote and the trunk opened. Inside were three of the transmitter units. Somebody up there had a sense of humor!

"Let me mark these three sets so they don't get mistaken for the original," I said. "I think they're identical down to the serial number and dirt on the components."

"What are you going to do with the copies?" Ken asked.

"Virtual copies are strings of numbers," I said. "Physical copies won't be made for some time, but eventually I hope to create an aerospace museum that contains copies of every airplane made on Earth. May I see your CAP card, please?"

I'll cut to the chase—he was a 6.2—his subscores for courage were low, as was his sex drive. Odd how a few subscores can add or subtract a few percentage points to qualify one for extraction as a sponsor. Ken Hill was an excellent museum curator.

"The director has a 4.8," Ken added. "He's a politician, a bureaucrat. Without such men, this museum would fold up."

One of the misunderstood facts of human social life was that the political animals made the "rules." Those rules essentially said that those following the rules were losers and those ruling were above the rules. I oversimplify things, and this account is on special extractions, not politics—but the virus called "politics" infects everything human.

"Tell me about flying saucers," I commanded.

"If you're talking about alien races, yes, I'm aware of them."

"We humans have been collecting 'native art' for centuries," I explained. "These replicas would be sought after by collectors."

"I need to hook you up with the gift shop manager," Ken said. "She is our wheeler-dealer. What are you offering in exchange for making patterns?"

"Your B-24 is short of parts," I said. "I think I can use replicators to fabricate extra turrets and parts to make your static display bomber complete. Just parts—and we'll mark them so that they are not mistaken for originals. My fabricator people need the practice."

Yes, readers, replicators are run by artificial intelligences—but even AI don't know everything, even AI can learn. I had run this through headquarters first.

"Soon all these artifacts will wind up being raw material for a war effort," I explained. I didn't mention the Sa'arm, or the pending invasion. "These aircraft are Air Force property."

"Not all of them," Ken corrected. "A few are privately owned. The Wright Flyer, for one."

"The aliens take ownership and property rights seriously," I added. "All I want to do is make patterns—sort of a super photograph. These objects are in the public domain. Boeing makes 747 and other big jets on an assembly line, can turn out them by the dozens in a few weeks, but the technology to make the B-17 is gone. It will have to be rebuilt if any more B-17's get made."