“Or at least we'll
make
it the biggest story.”
“See why they're so valuable?” Galloway said. Bach hardly heard her. She was reassessing what she had thought she knew about the situation.
“I don't know what to do,” she finally confessed. “I don't know what to ask you to do, either. I guess you ought to go with what you think is best.”
Galloway frowned.
“Both for professional and personal reasons, I'd rather try to help her. I'm not sure why. She is dangerous, you know.”
“I realize that. But I can't believe she can't be handled.”
“Neither can I.” She glanced at her watch. “Tell you what, you come with us on a little trip.”
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Bach protested at first, but Galloway would not be denied, and Bach's resistance was at a low ebb.
By speedboat, trolley, and airplane they quickly made their way on the top of Mozartplatz, where Bach found herself in a four-seat PTPâor point-to-pointâballistic vehicle.
She had never ridden in a PTP. They were rare, mostly because they wasted a lot of energy for only a few minutes' gain in travel time. Most people took the tubes, which reached speeds of three thousand miles per hour, hovering inches above their induction rails in Luna's excellent vacuum.
But for a celebrity like Galloway, the PTP made sense. She had trouble going places in public without getting mobbed. And she certainly had the money to spare.
There was a heavy initial acceleration, then weightlessness. Bach had never liked it, and enjoyed it even less with a few drinks in her.
Little was said during the short journey. Bach had not asked where they were going, and Galloway did not volunteer it. Bach looked out one of the wide windows at the fleeting moonscape.
As she counted the valleys, rilles, and craters flowing past beneath her, she soon realized her destination. It was a distant valley, in the sense that no tube track ran through it. In a little over an hour, Tango Charlie would come speeding through, no more than a hundred meters from the surface.
The PTP landed itself in a cluster of transparent, temporary domes. There were over a hundred of them, and more PTP's than Bach had ever seen before. She decided most of the people in and around the domes fell into three categories. There were the very wealthy, owners of private spacecraft, who had erected most of these portable Xanadus and filled them with their friends. There were civic dignitaries in city-owned domes. And there were the news media.
This last category was there in its teeming hundreds. It was not what they would call a
big
story, but it was a very visual one. It should yield spectacular pictures for the evening news.
A long, wide black stripe had been created across the sun-drenched plain, indicating the path Tango Charlie would take. Many cameras and quite a few knots of pressure-suited spectators were situated smack in the middle of that line, with many more off to one side, to get an angle on the approach. Beyond it were about a hundred large glass-roofed touring buses and a motley assortment of private crawlers, sunskimmers, jetsleds, and even some hikers: the common people, come to see the event.
Bach followed along behind the uncommon people: Galloway, thin and somehow spectral in the translucent suit, leaning on her crystal cane; the Myers twins, whose amparolee arms would not fit in the suits, so that the empty sleeves stuck out, bloated, like crucified ghosts; and most singular of all, the wire-sculpture arm units themselves, walking independently, on their fingertips, looking like some demented, disjointed mechanical camel as they lurched through the dust.
They entered the largest of the domes, set on the edge of the gathering nearest the black line, which put it no more than a hundred meters from the expected passage.
The first person Bach saw, as she was removing her helmet, was Hoeffer.
He did not see her immediately. He, and many of the other people in the dome, were watching Galloway. So she saw his face as his gaze moved from the celebrity to Joy and Jay . . . and saw amazement and horror, far too strong to be simple surprise at their weirdness. It was a look of recognition.
Galloway had said she had an excellent source.
She noticed Bach's interest, smiled, and nodded slightly. Still struggling to remove her suit, she approached Bach.
“That's right. The twins heard a rumor something interesting might be going on at NavTrack, so they found your commander. Turns out he has rather odd sexual tastes, though it's probably fairly pedestrian to Joy and Jay. They scratched his itch, and he spilled everything.”
“I find that . . . rather interesting,” Bach admitted.
“I thought you would. Were you planning to make a career out of being an R/A in Navigational Tracking?”
“That wasn't my intention.”
“I didn't think so. Listen, don't touch it. I can handle it without there being any chance of it backfiring on you. Within the week you'll be promoted out of there.”
“I don't know if . . .”
“If what?” Galloway was looking at her narrowly.
Bach hesitated only a moment.
“I may be stiff-necked, but I'm not a fool. Thank you.”
Galloway turned away a little awkwardly, then resumed struggling with her suit. Bach was about to offer some help, when Galloway frowned at her.
“How come you're not taking off your pressure suit?”
“That dome up there is pretty strong, but it's only one layer. Look around you. Most of the natives have just removed their helmets, and a lot are carrying those around. Most of the Earthlings are out of their suits. They don't understand vacuum.”
“You're saying it's not safe?”
“No. But vacuum doesn't forgive. It's trying to kill you
all
the time.”
Galloway looked dubious, but stopped trying to remove her suit.
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Bach wandered the electronic wonderland, helmet in hand.
Tango Charlie would not be visible until less than a minute before the close encounter, and then would be hard to spot as it would be only a few seconds of arc above the horizon line. But there were cameras hundreds of miles downtrack which could already see it, both as a bright star, moving visibly against the background, and as a jittery image in some very long lenses. Bach watched as the wheel filled one screen until she could actually see furniture behind one of the windows.
For the first time since arriving, she thought of Charlie. She wondered if Tik-Tokâno, dammit, if the Charlie Station Computer had told her of the approach, and if so, would Charlie watch it. Which window would she choose? It was shocking to think that, if she chose the right one, Bach might catch a glimpse of her.
Only a few minutes to go. Knowing it was stupid, Bach looked along the line indicated by the thousand cameras, hoping to catch the first glimpse.
She saw Megan Galloway doing a walk-around, followed by a camera crew, no doubt saying bright, witty things to her huge audience. Galloway was here less for the event itself than for the many celebrities who had gathered to witness it. Bach saw her approach a famous TV star, who smiled and embraced her, making some sort of joke about Galloway's pressure suit.
You can meet him if you want, she told herself. She was a little surprised to discover she had no interest in doing so.
She saw Joy and Jay in heated conversation with Hoeffer. The twins seemed distantly amused.
She saw the countdown clock, ticking toward one minute.
Then the telescopic image in one of the remote cameras began to shake violently. In a few seconds, it had lost its fix on Charlie Station. Bach watched as annoyed technicians struggled to get it back.
“Seismic activity,” one of them said, loud enough for Bach to hear.
She looked at the other remote monitor, which showed Tango Charlie as a very bright star sitting on the horizon. As she watched, the light grew visibly, until she could see it as a disc. And in another part of the screen, at a site high in the lunar hills, there was a shower of dust and rock. That must be the seismic activity, she thought. The camera operator zoomed in on this eruption, and Bach frowned. She couldn't figure out what sort of lunar quake could cause such a commotion. It looked more like an impact. The rocks and dust particles were fountaining up with lovely geometrical symmetry, each piece, from the largest boulder to the smallest mote, moving at about the same speed and in a perfect mathematical trajectory, unimpeded by any air resistance, in a way that could never be duplicated on Earth. It was a dull gray expanding dome shape, gradually flattening on top.
Frowning, she turned her attention to the spot on the plain where she had been told Charlie would first appear. She saw the first light of it, but more troubling, she saw a dozen more of the expanding domes. From here, they seemed no larger than soap bubbles.
Then another fountain of rock erupted, not far from the impromptu parking lot full of tourist buses.
Suddenly she knew what was happening.
“It's shooting at us!” she shouted. Everyone fell silent, and as they were still turning to look at her, she yelled again.
“Suit up.”
Her voice was drowned out by the sound every Lunarian dreads: the high, haunting shriek of escaping air.
Step number one,
she heard a long-ago instructor say. See to
your own
pressure integrity
first.
You can't help anybody, man, woman or child, if you pass out before you get into your suit.
It was a five-second operation to don and seal her helmet, one she had practiced a thousand times as a child. She glimpsed a great hole in the plastic roof. Debris was pouring out of it, swept up in the sudden wind: paper, clothing, a couple of helmets . . .
Sealed up, she looked around and realized many of these people were doomed. They were not in their suits, and there was little chance they could put them on in time.
She remembered the next few seconds in a series of vivid impressions.
A boulder, several tons of dry lunar rock, crashed down on a bank of television monitors.
A chubby little man, his hands shaking, unable to get his helmet over his bald head. Bach tore it from his hands, slapped it in place, and gave it a twist hard enough to knock him down.
Joy and Jay, as good as dead, killed by the impossibility of fitting the mechanical arms into their suits, holding each other calmly in metallic embrace.
Beyond the black line, a tour bus rising slowly in the air, turning end over end. A hundred of the hideous gray domes of explosions growing like mushrooms all through the valley.
And there was Galloway. She was going as fast as she could, intense concentration on her face as she stumbled along after her helmet, which was rolling on the ground. Blood had leaked from one corner of her nose. It was almost soundless in the remains of the dome now.
Bach snagged the helmet, and hit Galloway with a flying tackle. Just like a drill: put helmet in place, twist, hit three snap-interlocks, then the emergency pressurization switch. She saw Galloway howl in pain and try to put her hands to her ears.
Lying there she looked up as the last big segment of the dome material lifted in a dying wind to reveal . . . Tango Charlie.
It was a little wheel rolling on the horizon. No bigger than a coin.
She blinked.
And it was
here.
Vast, towering, coming directly at her through a hell of burning dust.
It was the dust that finally made the lasers visible. The great spokes of light were flashing on and off in millisecond bursts, and in each pulse a trillion dust motes were vaporized in an eyeball-frying purple light.
It was impossible that she saw it for more than a tenth of a second, but it seemed much longer. The sight would remain with her, and not just in memory. For days afterward her vision was scored with a spiderweb of purple lines.
But much worse was the awesome grandeur of the thing, the whirling menace of it as it came rushing out of the void. That picture would last much longer than a few days. It would come out only at night, in dreams that would wake her for years, drenched in sweat.
And the last strong image she would carry away from the valley was of Galloway, turned over now, pointing her crystal cane at the wheel, already far away on the horizon. A line of red laser light came out of the end of the cane and stretched away into infinity.
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“Wow!” said Charlotte Isolde Hill Perkins-Smith. “Wow, Tik-Tok, that was great! Let's do it again.”
Hovering in the dead center of the hub, Charlie had watched all of the encounter. It had been a lot like she imagined a roller-coaster would be when she watched the films in Tik-Tok's memory. If it had a faultâand she wasn't complaining, far from itâit was that the experience had been too short. For almost an hour she had watched the moon get bigger, until it no longer seemed round and the landscape was rolling by beneath her. But she'd seen that much before. This time it just got larger and larger, and faster and faster, until she was scooting along at about a zillion miles an hour. Then there was a lot of flashing lights . . . and gradually, the ground got farther away again. It was still back there, dwindling, no longer very interesting.
“I'm glad you liked it,” Tik-Tok said.
“Only one thing. How come I had to put on my pressure suit?”
“Just a precaution.”
She shrugged, and made her way to the elevator.
When she got out at the rim, she frowned. There were alarms sounding, far around the rim on the wheel.
“We got a problem?” she asked.
“Minor,” Tik-Tok said.
“What happened?”
“We got hit by some rocks.”