1944, Crown Corporation Board Room, Earth

A sudden silence filled the boardroom. Harsh white light filled the screen behind Dr. Scott as the final slide peeled away. It reflected off of his glasses and the tips of pens cropping off his double breasted white coat. Brass colored light danced around the room like a utilitarian dance party. The doctor was petrified. Having spoken for over three hours the vacuum caused by the end of his presentation was as harsh as the light behind him. Someone coughed. Papers rustled. Life returned to the room from behind the veil and, mercifully, Dr. Scott's graduate student, Harvey, turned off the projector. Smoke drifted around the tastefully Spartan room, marginally larger than the old table around which sat 8 serious men - not fellow scientists but business men, money men - who would determine how Dr. Scott and his graduate student Mr. Harvey Ivanovich would spend the next 50 years of their lives.

"So your plan, Mr. Scott", the doctor suddenly heard the sound of grinding teeth and realized it was his, "is to build the compound here, locally, divided into eight parts."

Three hours of facts and designs compressed into a sentence. Dr. Scott nodded, pleased they had understood that much.

"Then launch them all at the moon, upside down, with no consideration for entry, and simply hope that the damage is not enough to kill the 5,000 people on board."

Adjusting his tie and clearing his throat, Dr. Scott prepared to say something horrible.

"If my calculations are correct, gentlemen, we can expect casualties of 100 civilians, plus or minus 20%, which will leave more than enough men and women in the hub to find the remaining 8 parts and build a complete facility. After that, it's simply a matter of time before the atmosphere will be suitable to sustain life."

8 men, wearing modest suits, stared at him as he said this. It was absolutely devastating. Harvey's enthusiastic but ill-timed thumbs up almost made him burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Another cough, more papers shuffling, some adjustment of ties. "And this will cost us fifty billion dollars?"

Raising his finger to point out that appendix F detailed the specific requirements for each element of the project; he was interrupted by a younger man, sitting farther away from the end of the table. "Before we start talking about cost: 120 lives? Green's program doesn't kill anyone."

"It also costs almost 300 billion, and won't be finished for as many years." A sneering executive with blond sideburns retorted, taking a drag off his cigar.

"To be fair," this was someone in the back, "That's only a billion a year. Easy to finance." Wave of laughter. The doctor swallowed. He was losing them to their own buddy-buddy camaraderie.

"Gentlemen, if you will consider the speed at which my program will be--"

A loud, resonating baritone came from the far end of the old myrtle-wood table, from the oldest gentleman in the room. It interrupted the doctor as effectively as a dagger.

"What will the cause of these deaths be, exactly?"

"Well, assuming everyone is prepped for the low gravity pressure change upon impact, mostly head trauma. I'd say the vast majority."

"Your budget details forty-nine billion, eight hundred and ninety five million, three hundred and four thousand, and ninety dollars. What do you say we just round up to a clean 50 billion, buy everyone a crash helmet, pay Dr. Green to come on as a consultant, and give the nice doctor here a raise? We'll let the boys from accounting thank us later."

"Well," Dr. Scott said, voice all a-quiver, "That will certainly make the tax season easier for you. Both of us, really."

A wave of chuckles, having made a business joke for business men in a business meeting, washed over the Doctor and, to a lesser extent, Harvey. As the tide went out it took with it anxiety from months of planning.

"Then it's settled!" he said, the first real faux paus he'd made all afternoon.

"Not quite. One question." Blond had raised his hand, looking vaguely interested at the dictionary-thick report. "If the eight pieces connect in the way you lay out here, the completed facility is going to look exactly like a castle."

Silence.

"Was that intentional?"

With a determined force of will, Dr Scott began to stammer. Before he could really explain himself, Harvey leaped in.

"Gentlemen, please." The cocksure voice of a man who knows he's done the lion’s share of the real research. "You're going to tell me you don't want to own a castle on the moon?"