Authors: Jack McDevitt
Jack saw blinkers ahead and they slowed down again. Accident, probably. He started to move toward the rear doors, hoping to throw them open and jump out, hoping for police. But Tad climbed back and stayed with him until they’d gotten past and were moving along again at a steady clip.
There were other slowdowns, and Tad complained they wouldn’t make it by one.
Gallagher glanced at his watch. They’d switched places several times and Tad was driving now. “It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “We can take our time. All we have to do is knock
down one plane. Doesn’t matter which one it is.” He looked at peace with the world. It was odd. He seemed to discount the risks they were taking. As if they were destiny’s favorites.
STATEMENT FROM THE PRESIDENT. 10:00
A.M.
President Charles L. Haskell, speaking from the
Percival Lowell.
“This morning I’d like to address, not only the American people, but our friends around the globe. The world community is currently lective history. Coasts everywhere have been inundated, cities battered, whole populations turned out of their homes. Millions have died. In the United States, we have lost n president, the government is scattered, casualties are terrifyingly high. And an even greater danger hangs over our heads.
“I’m on board the
Percival Lowell
, a nuclear-powered ship designed and built by us, by the human race, to carry our representatives, and eventually our civilization, outward. To Mars and beyond. Now, instead, H is being used to scout an enemy of that civilization. It’s a technological marvel and it stands as a symbol of what we can accomplish when we put aside our differences, and our fears, and act in our common interest.
“During the last two days, the United Stales has received massive aid from its friends, and even from some longtime rivals, around the world. Italian surgical units, Canadian wheat, Mexican disaster teams, Chinese helicopter and transport services, have arrived on our shores and have helped save the lives of thousands of our people. Japanese technicians freed Americans trapped in collapsed buildings in Seattle and Anchorage; Russian ships rescued sailors from capsized vessels in the North Atlantic; Israeli and Egyptian army engineers, working in concert, have shored up dozens of damaged buildings, bridges, and dams. Our own armed forces have reacted with courage and determination.
“We’ve begun to hear of individual acts of heroism, people throwing themselves into the path of torrents to rescue others from
overturned automobiles, a young woman in Tallahssee who lifted on automobile off a cad’s chest amid rising waters, a helicopter pilot in Hawaii who snatched three teenagers from a roadway and had to outrun a tidal wave.
“The world is drawing together. We’re putting aside politics and ancient rivalries and all the other causes that divide us, and we’re acting, for the first time in our history, as a single family. It is this fact that gives me great hope for the future. That persuades me we can come back from all the damage we’ve sustained over the last two nights, from the terrible losses we’ve taken, that we will rise from this calamity stronger and better than we have ever been before. That we will memorialize those who have died by rebuilding their world. That we will do it together, and that when we have finished, we will have created a civilization that will give pride to men and women as long as we inhabit this globe.
Unfortunately, none of this will be possible if we don’t turn aside me Possum. So let me tell you what the situation is: You already know that, if left on its present course, the Possum will come down in Kansas at four-fifty-six
A.M.
tomorrow.
“We don’t to let that happen. With the cooperation of the Lunar Transport Authority, we’re gong to put the entire fleet of space planes on the rock. We’re going to anchor them down and then we’re going to fire their engines, and we’re going to accelerate the Possum so that ft crosses Earth’s orbit early. That will get ft out of the way. We expect it’ll remain a neighborhood nuisance for a we after that, but we’ll be able to deal with it at our leisure.
“Will it work?
“I’ve seen the same interviews you have. Some experts soy no. Furthermore, a lot of people don’t trust the government very much. They think if s either dishonest or incompetent or both. Okay, I’m not going to argue that point tonight. We can address it later after we’ve solved the more pressing problem of our survival.
“Will it work?
“I can’t guarantee success. But I’ve been close to the effort to
detour the Possum right from the beginning. I suppose you could soy no one’s closer. In fact, I can look out my window here and you’ll notice it’s only a few hundred feet away.
“I’m not a mathematician. The physicists who’ve planned this mission are confident. We’ve assembled me last people from around the world to make it happen. So I’ll tell you this If it’s humanly possible, we’ll get it done. Meantime, I ask you to keep calm, trust us to persevere, and we’ll cone through this together.
“Thank you. We’ll keep you informed.”
3.
NEWSNET
WE REGRET
NEWNET
SERVICE IS TEMPORARILY OFF-LINE DUE TO RELOCATION OF NEWS AND PROCESSING CENTER FROM CHICAGO TO TORONTO. CHECK THIS SITE TOMORROW.
Skyport Orbital Lab. 1:10
P.M.
Andrea was a useful addition. She took over the communication systems without undue delay, learned to monitor the data feeds that provided information from hundreds of remote and manned facilities and relay it to appropriate consumers, and showed a natural talent for mollifying researchers who weren’t satisfied with the quality or alacrity of responses.
The lab, and the various facilities it served, were now almost exclusively concerned with the fallout from the collision between Tomiko and the Moon. A subsidiary branch of specialization had appeared almost overnight: an interest in Tomiko itself, and the suspicion that it was something more than simply a comet. That notion was rapidly developing into a full-scale argument. But like philosophical and religious debates, it appeared to be an argument that would lead nowhere. The comet had vaporized, and if anything unusual
had lain within its frozen exterior, it was hard to see how any of it could have survived.
Meantime, the return of POSIM-38 had claimed primary attention. People who wanted details, say, on energy release or gravity fluctuations during the collision were being put on hold. Virtually every instrument under the lab’s auspices was aimed at the Possum.
For her part, Andrea was delighted to be back at work. Windy had even signed papers to grant her status as a temporary employee. (It turned out the government had rules against using volunteer professionals without paying them.)
By this time a small network of stations directly involved in the effort to get rid of the Possum were linked directly to the
Lowell
. These stations included the Lyndon Johnson Space Center in Houston, Feinberg s temporary location at Hartsfield, the Mauna Kea Observatory in Hawaii, Palomar in California, an advisory post at Cambridge University, and the AstroLab. All other communications to the
Lowell
were furineled through the Orbital Lab.
Most of these were either for Keith Morley from his producers, or for the president. The latter were, for the most part, scrambled.
Andrea was a professional. She did not try to eavesdrop, but it was her duty to stay on the circuit until she was sure connections had been made. In so doing she’d learned that Evelyn Hampton, the chaplain, and Rachel Quinn had all received book and movie offers. She also knew that the president had spoken to the families of Tony Casaway and Bigfoot Caparatti; that Hampton had called Jack Chandler’s son.
She wondered about Chandler. He hadn’t been on the microbus, but she knew he’d volunteered to stay behind. What had happened?
A new
Lowell
radio operator had appeared. The voice was
familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “This is Andrea Bellwether,” she said. “Do I know you?”
“Yes you do, Andrea,” the voice said. “This is Mark.”
“Chaplain, hello.” They’d been only casual acquaintances at Moonbase, but now he Seemed like an old friend. “You’re the comm officer now?”
“Yes. Bottom of the barrel, you know. I’m glad you got back all right.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I think you had a rougher ride than I did. Tell me, are you going to get rid of that thing?”
“I hope so. I think Charlie Haskell will go after it with a pickax if he has to.”
Percival Lowell
Utility Deck. 1:19
P.M.
Evelyn and Saber stripped off their p-suits. Lee Cochran was gracious enough to keep his back turned. “I think we did pretty well,” he said.
They had. They’d established that four of Feinberg’s preferred sites were located on solid ground, and eliminated two others. Three to go.
Evelyn was stiff and sweaty, but she felt good. She’d come through the most desperate crisis of her life and had been nothing but extra weight the whole time. Until today. Today she’d gone out with Lee and Saber and they’d wrestled the laser drill around, bored holes, collected samples, gotten back inside, and waited while Rachel moved the ship to another niche on the rock’s surface, where they got out and did it all again.
They were accomplishing what they needed to and they were running ahead of schedule.
She cleaned off in the scrubber, changed back into her blouse and slacks, and went to the galley for a quick lunch. Mark Pinnacle looked up as she walked in. “Hail the conqueror,” he said. “We’ve got some great videos of you and Lee with the tractor.”
“Thanks.” She opened the refrigerator door and pulled put a QuikPack. Turkey sandwich with cranberries. “Save me one to put over my desk.”
Lee walked in. “That is a very big boulder out there,” he said. “Seven pairs of rockets don’t seem like much against it.”
“Seven is historically a sacred number,” said the chaplain. “Seven sacraments, seven sins against the Holy Spirit, Japan’s seven gods of happiness, the Seven Against Thebes. Maybe we’ll add to the canon.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Evelyn.
The chaplain had been munching a piece of meat loaf. He swallowed it, finished off a container of apple juice, and got up to go. “Got to get back to my work station,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “By the way, they’ve got one of the Moonbase people manning communications at the Orbital Lab.”
“Really?” asked Evelyn. “Who?”
“Andrea Bellwether.”
“I don’t think I know her,” said Evelyn.
“Is she by any chance related to
Frank
Bellwether?” asked Cochran.
“His daughter,” said the chaplain.
“If we’re going to talk about omens,” said Cochran, “that’s not a good one.”
Frank Bellwether, the pilot who’d
bounced
. Who had come in with damaged instruments and a damaged
Ranger
, and who had tried to insert himself into the atmosphere at the precise angle needed to maneuver between a ricochet and a burn-up, and who had ricocheted. Beyond any hope of rescue.
There’d been talk about the incident recently, of using a
Lowell
-type vessel to recover the
Ranger
, which in its lonely solar orbit was still visible on the world’s radar screens. But the consensus seemed to be that it was better to leave the ship where it was. Evelyn shared that view.
“Nobody’s talking omens,” the chaplain said, a surprising edge to his voice. Out of character. Evelyn wondered if he was beginning to feel the pressure.
SSTO
Berlin
Flight Deck, Hartsfield Maintenance Facility.
1:43
P.M.
“Try it now, Gruder.”
The flight engineer looked down at the yellow box they’d mounted on the bulkhead by his hip, and pressed the black button. This time, lamps lit up and machinery moved beneath the deck. The engineers who were crowded together on the hangar floor, where they could see the undercarriage, jabbed fists upward and shook hands with each other. “That’s good, Gruder,” said Kathleen’s voice in his earphones. Kathleen was down below with the engineers. “It was a loose cable. We’ll put the panels back, try it one more time, and we should be ready to go.”
The SSTO was on a cradle so the pitons wouldn’t dig up the hangar floor.
Gruder nodded to his captain.
Willem finished going over his preliminaries and glanced out at the engineers. One of them was a deliciously attractive blonde.
“When we come back,” said Gruder, “we will be heroes. Women like that will be our oyster. They will open to us on request.” He grinned and the captain grinned back. It was, of course, quite true.
The ground crews brought in three flatbeds of brown earth. They drove them under the spacecraft, positioning one beneath each of the three pitons.
Kathleen spoke to him: “Okay, Gruder, try it again.”
He hit the button and felt the spikes come down. Felt them dig into the dirt, felt the spacecraft lift slightly as weight was transferred from the landing gear, watched the lamps stay
amber until a string of lights indicated the pitons were fully extended. Grader touched a presspad and flanges pushed out in three directions from the head of each piton, anchoring it. If necessary, he had a break switch that would jettison the units and allow the SSTO to lift away from the surface. The break switch was hidden inside the box to prevent its being accidentally activated.
“Retract,” said Kathleen.
They would not be able to retract on the Possum, where the pitons would be anchored in rock. But here, it was no problem. Grader keyed the command. The flanges released their grip and the pitons withdrew into the mounts. The undercarriage creaked.
They went through the exercise a second time, after which the pitons received a thorough cleaning and lubrication. The engineers, satisfied, walked away, and Kathleen, after shaking hands with a couple of them, left the group and returned to the plane.