James was summoned by Hugo Barrington to London the following week.

  A Cabinet meeting had been called, and James was invited to attend. He presented his thoughts and laid out his plan.

  When he had finished, he was politely shown out and asked to wait in the bar. James ordered an orange juice.

  “I’d better keep a clear head,” he muttered to himself.

  Behind closed doors, the Cabinet discussed the proposal in great detail.

  An hour later, Hugo Barrington entered the bar.

  “Let’s go to my office,” he said.

  James felt butterflies in his stomach as they walked the long corridors of power. Once seated, Hugo got straight to the point.

  “Congratulations, James. Your project has been approved.”

  James exhaled with relief and sank back into the chair.

  “That’s fantastic news. Thank you, Hugo—really. I appreciate your support, your time, and your effort.”

  “My thanks to you. It’s not often a good idea walks through the doors of Whitehall.”

  “What happens next?” James asked.

  “HMG—more specifically, the Ministry of Defense—will take control. National security and all that. This technology will remain under the strict control of His Majesty’s Government. We won’t make the same mistake we made with Frank Whittle and the jet engine. We gave the bloody thing away. Can you believe it? The poor chap deserved far better. Very shabby treatment.”

  Hugo leaned forward.

  “You carry on with building that beam device and the propulsion system. The funds have already been approved. They’ll be transferred within the hour. All future orders will be handled by the government. Any further development work will come your way.”

  “The Ministry of defense will provide you with a secure test site in a no-fly zone—can’t have your beam frying any passing aircraft. An underground chamber will be prepared for testing the propulsion system. Helmsley Flight will build the spacecraft, but they’ll need mounting and interface details from you. The RAF will provide astronauts, and the national space team will handle navigation and communications.”

  Hugo gave him a serious look.

  “I have to be clear, James. You’re not to speak of this visit or its outcome to anyone. Understood?”

  “Better than I’d hoped for,” said James. “My silence—and that of my employees—is assured.”

  James returned to Newcastle a happy man.

  On the way, he phoned his secretary.

  “Samantha, schedule a head of departments meeting for 9 o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  At 9 a.m. sharp, everyone was in place as James entered the boardroom.

  “Good morning,” he began. “As you know, I was in London yesterday. I can’t say what happened—for reasons of national security. All I can tell you is that the Ministry of Defense has now taken over the project.”

  He let the silence settle for a moment.

  “Our work must remain absolutely secret. Be warned—if there’s a leak, there’ll be a witch hunt, and the penalties will be severe.”

  James turned to Steve, the head of quality control.

  “We’re to carry on with development. There’s unlimited overtime for anyone who wants the work—but it must be top quality. That’s your department, Steve. I want you and your team crawling over, under, and through everything. If in doubt—reject it. We can’t afford mistakes.”

  Steve nodded grimly.

  “Keep me informed daily. Let me know the moment we’re ready for testing. It’ll take place at an undisclosed location.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The meeting continued with further discussions, then concluded.

  Mounting details for the propulsion system, the mass-to-energy convertor, and its fuel supply were passed on to Helmsley Flight.

  Both the beam and propulsion system projects were now underway. James made occasional, brief visits—never staying long. He didn’t want to add pressure to the teams.

  The elevator project was the simpler of the two. It was completed in just three weeks.

  James, a team of engineers, the elevator components, and a mass-to-energy convertor were flown to a windswept airfield in northern Scotland aboard an RAF Hercules cargo plane. Before the flight, all had signed the Official Secrets Act.

  As James stood on the tarmac, the cold wind tugged at his coat.

  I hope this works, he thought. Otherwise, that’ll be the end of any defense contracts.

  His engineers would handle assembly. The RAF would run the tests.

  The convertor was assembled first and powered on. Then came the beam generator. Diagnostics showed all systems in order.

  An anchor plate—three meters in diameter, shaped like a shallow dish—had been prepared. It would act as the beam’s stabilizing target, mounted bowl-down above the generator. A six-wheeled mobile crane, supplied by the Army, hoisted it into position thirty meters overhead.

  The plate swayed slightly on the cable, buffeted by the wind.

  “Movement within limits. Good to go,” someone reported.

  The beam was energized at minimum output.

  Strain gauges on the crane were monitored as power was gradually increased.

  James watched, tense.

  The plate steadied. The beam’s electromagnetic field had locked it in position, directly above the generator.

  Slowly, the load on the crane began to drop.

  At a certain output level, the crane’s load dropped to zero.

  “Power output at 5%. Hover setting,” the test controller announced.

  “It works,” James whispered. Then he smiled. So did his team.

  Power was reduced; the load returned to the crane. The procedure was repeated several times before the test was declared a complete success.

  The beam was shut down. The crane lowered the anchor plate gently to the ground.

  "Now for the next step," James said.

  With the beam powered down, a cradle was assembled around the beam generator. The anchor plate was gently lowered into the cradle by crane and unhooked. The crane then moved clear.

  The anchor plate now sat in the cradle, ten meters above the beam generator. The team turned the beam generator back on and began slowly increasing its power output.

  The anchor plate began to rise.

  The power was reduced to 5%, and the plate halted.

  "Hovering at 500 meters."

  Power was increased again, and the plate continued rising. At 1,000 meters, the power was again dropped to 5%.

  "Hovering at 1,000 meters. Hover power setting: 5%."

  The procedure was repeated at 1,000-metre intervals.

  Finally:

  "At the Kármán line. Hovering at 100 kilometers. On the edge of space."

  The engineers and James cheered.

  "Now in space," the controller announced, raising another cheer.

  By late afternoon, a final update came:

  "Final altitude achieved: 2,000 kilometers. Stable position."

  James beamed. The test had gone exactly to plan.

  The team stayed overnight on the base, ready to continue assembly and testing the following day. The accommodation was basic, but there was food and drink.

  By morning, the anchor plate had returned to ground level. The beam had been powered down, and the cradle removed.

  James and his engineers began assembling the elevator platform. Once finished, the crane lifted the anchor plate back into position above the beam generator. The beam was reactivated. The crane’s load fell to zero, and it moved away.

  The anchor plate ascended straight to 2,000 kilometers without stopping.

  "Engaging the elevator platform now."

  The elevator began to rise.

  "1,000 meters—all normal. Hover power setting: 8.5%."

  "2,000 meters—all normal."

  This continued for an hour.

  "At the Kármán line, 100 kilometers. Edge of space."

  More cheers.

  Later, the controller announced:

  "Final altitude achieved: 1,990 kilometers. Stable position."

  That evening, the engineers and James were flown back to Newcastle. The RAF continued testing.

  The elevator platform was loaded with steel to simulate a full payload.

  "Hovering at 1,000 meters. Hover power: 57%. All normal."

  "Final altitude achieved: 1,990 kilometers. Stable position."

  The elevator tests were officially declared a success.

  The 2,000-kilometre altitude had been selected specifically because it was below satellite orbits.

  Meanwhile, at Teesdale Dynamics, the second mass-to-energy convertor was complete. Work on the propulsion drive for the spacecraft was nearly finished.

  One Thursday morning, James received a call from Hugo Barrington.

  "I'll be back in the constituency tonight. Can you keep tomorrow free and meet me at my house at 9 o’clock?"

  "Certainly, Hugo. I’ll see you then."

  The next morning, Hugo met James at the door.

  "We won’t go inside—we're going for a little drive."

  James got into Hugo’s car, a sleek silver Jaguar XF Saloon.

  "Where are we going?" James asked.

  "To see some aviation friends of ours. They do odd jobs for us," Hugo said with a grin.

  As they drove, the conversation turned casual.

  "Nice car, Hugo."

  "Isn’t she lovely? Got it two months ago. Runs on water—smooth as a sewing machine."

  "I always wondered why you didn’t drive a Rolls-Royce."

  Hugo laughed.

  "I considered it once, but then someone told me, ‘The moment a chap sells a Rolls, everyone assumes he’s hit hard times.’"

  James chuckled.

  "Thanks for the wisdom. I’ll remember that if I ever get into that situation."

  "What about you, James? That old diesel of yours must be on its last legs. Between maintenance and the price of fuel..."

  "Maybe next year—after the factory’s mass-to-energy convertor pays for itself."

  "It might be sooner than that," Hugo said, grinning, "if this little idea of yours pans out."

  An hour later, they arrived at the gates of Helmsley Flight.

  They showed identification, and their appointment was verified by security. As they drove into the car park, Hugo gave James a quiet reminder.

  "They know it’s for space, but they don’t know what it’s for—so keep it that way."

  At the main entrance, they were met by Simon Hall, the company’s director, who welcomed them and led the way toward the hangar.

  Inside the hangar, the completed ship sat cradled in a sturdy framework.

  It wasn’t at all what James had expected.

  It was a simple, cylindrical tube with domed ends—more like a missile than a spacecraft. About thirty meters in length, it appeared far smaller than he had imagined. No wings. No fins. Just four directional nozzles, clearly for thrust vectoring.

  “It looks like a wingless Harrier jump jet,” James thought, “or something off a Cold War weapons list.”

  He looked for a cargo bay. There wasn’t one.

  Instead, underneath the fuselage, mounted externally, was a rack system—clearly designed to jettison cargo.

  “That looks like something off a World War I bomber,” James muttered to himself.

  Inside the hull, mock-up models of the mass-to-energy convertor, the fuel package, and the propulsion system had already been installed.

  “Any problems with the mounting points or the measurements we gave you?” James asked the Helmsley Flight director.

  “None at all,” the man replied. “Everything fit precisely. Your specs were spot-on.”

  James nodded. They spent about an hour inspecting the prototype and reviewing component placement. Then it was time to return to Newcastle.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Hugo said as they parted.

  James hadn’t been told that the installation work had been completed by the astronaut team, under supervision from Helmsley engineers. The same team would disassemble the prototype again later, readying it for transport to the elevator site in Scotland.

  By the end of the following week, the real propulsion system was finished.

  Alongside it, the mass-to-energy convertor and the fuel feed system were completed, crated, and collected by the Army. They would be delivered directly to the launch facility.

  James would not see them—or the ship—again.

  “Back to the ARCON muddle, I suppose,” he sighed.