Moonfall Page 12

Saber had gone below to make sure the passengers were ready. They were still hauling families and visiting VIPs. She reported everything secure in the cabin and hurried back up the ladder while Tony got his final countdown. Overhead, the roof divided and rolled back.

  “They’re really excited,” said Saber. “Especially the kids.”

  “About getting away?”

  “About riding on the Percival Lowell.”

  He lifted away from Moonbase. It was a near-perfect launch, requiring only a few brief bursts from the attitude jets, not enough to reveal that one was firing rich, using twice the amount of fuel as the other eleven. He felt relieved when the main engine shut down with no telltales or warnings on his board, and no suggestion that fuel usage had risen. Maybe they had failed to fill his tanks; or maybe it had been a computer glitch.

  Once they were in orbit, Tony went down to say hello to his passengers. He always made it a point to visit the cabin. Usually, during the five-plus hours between L1 and the Moon, he did it at his leisure, welcoming people aboard, lending his calm demeanor to the inevitable one or two who were making their first flight. He wore grip shoes even though he’d long since learned to move with ease through zero-g. Those who might already be a little skittish reacted more positively to a captain who seemed to have his feet planted firmly on the deck.

  The VIPs were seventy-year-old Kwae Li Pak, listed as a world-renowned expert in long-term low-gravity effects on musculature; a United States senator; a nineteen-year-old student from the Polytechnical University of Catalunya, whose trip to the Moon had been first prize for a science project; and a Russian industrialist.

  All were excited, even Pak. The senator, who was from South Carolina, wished aloud that the hand of God would reach out and strike the comet down. He seemed to be in much of Tony’s state of mind. The Russian made it a point to thank Tony and to inquire when the pilot himself would get clear.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. And after a moment’s thought: “As soon as I can.”

  Lowell showed up on the scopes right on schedule. Tony put a visual on the overhead and Saber gazed at it admiringly. “It’s the only way to travel,” she said.

  Tony shrugged.

  The first time Tony had seen the Lowell, docked at L1, he’d felt mixed emotions. Great-looking ship, all dressed up with nowhere to go. Mars was just a desert with a big volcano and some very old riverbeds. Hardly worth two years on plastic rations.

  The Micro closed gradually with the interplanetary vessel. Tony exchanged operational data with a female voice.

  “That’ll be Rachel Quinn,” smiled Saber. There was something forlorn in her tone.

  “You wouldn’t really want to make that trip, would you?” he asked.

  Saber smiled. “I’d kill,” she said.

  Lowell’s docking port was located on its underside in the after section. Tony swung the Micro into position, setting it almost crosswise with the larger ship, and handed control over to the autopilot, which took it across the last fifty meters. He switched on the intercom and warned the passengers not to remove their harnesses until they were advised to do so. A light jarring underscored the admonition.

  But the magnetics had taken hold and amber lights were coming on, signifying that the connecting chamber between the docking grips was sealed and beginning to pressurize. Minutes later the lights went green, and Saber went below to stand by the airlock.

  Tony heard the hatches open, heard Saber talking with another woman, who must have been Rachel Quinn. Then he slipped out of his own seat and went below to say good-bye to his passengers.

  They filed out happily, and he heard cries of delight as they arrived on board Lowell. Then he caught a glimpse of Quinn.

  “See you at Skyport,” she said. And the hatch at the other end closed.

  Tony was mildly irritated. It was true the Micro didn’t have much glamor, but it was a tough little workhorse, and these people weren’t treating it with proper respect.

  “Damn,” said Saber.

  “I know what you mean,” said Tony.

  “I wanted to climb through and get a look.”

  “Oh. Well, you saw it at L1. Hell, you’ve been inside it a half-dozen times.”

  “It’s different out here,” she said. “It’s alive now.”

  “I don’t think we have time to spare,” he said.

  “I know.” She keyed the disconnect and watched their own hatch close.

  He used the thrusters only twice during the withdrawal.

  SSTO Berlin Flight Deck. 7:12 A.M.

  The faulty navigational programming created a problem for all three space planes. Berlin’s pilot, Willem Stephan, was placidly watching Moon and comet growing larger when the alert came in from Moonbase: “We show Berlin and Copenhagen off course.”

  “Negative,” his flight engineer told him. “Flight profile looks good.”

  “Moonbase,” Stephan said, “we do not show variance.” Copenhagen, eighty kilometers off to starboard, was a bright star.

  “Wait one,” said Moonbase.

  Stephan switched over to Nora Ehrlich in Copenhagen. “How do you look?”

  “Same as you, Willem. Right on target.”

  The voice came back: “Both birds, this is Moonbase. We want you to go to manual. Switch to Channel Eleven and pick up the beacon. Acknowledge when you’ve complied.”

  His flight engineer was Gruder Müller, a friend who went all the way back to his University of Hamburg days. Gruder brought the beacon trace up on the screen. “Berlin acknowledges,” said Stephan.

  “Roger. Stand by for course correction.”

  “Roger, Moonbase.” He exchanged glances with Gruder. Maybe piloting between Earth and the Moon wasn’t quite the exact science he’d thought.

  “Berlin, this is Moonbase.” A new voice. With authority. Probably the watch supervisor. “We are going to slot you into a different vector from the one planned. We think there’s a glitch in the programming, so we’ll do the rest of this handson. Do you read?”

  Stephan acknowledged.

  He entered the new data into the computer, and six minutes later executed his course change. Copenhagen followed suit.

  Berlin’s first scheduled pickup was to be from the microbus. He ran a simulation of the rendezvous. “We don’t match up so well now,” he said. “The Micro’s going to have to finagle a bit.”

  Washington, D.C. 7:22 A.M.

  Harold Boatmann hadn’t slept all night. The gray dawn was seeping through the curtains of his Georgetown apartment. He gave up and got out of bed, scrambled some eggs, put a half-dozen strips of bacon into the microwave, made a pot of coffee, and checked with his duty officer. Things were calming down a bit. People had been soothed by White House assurances and by the tack adopted by the media, which were downplaying the comet and portraying those who took to the roads as cranks.

  The transportation secretary should have been gratified. But the truth was that the administration’s position was a gamble. Tens of thousands of lives might be lost if they guessed wrong. Boatmann wondered how he would live with that kind of burden.

  He picked at his breakfast and finally gave up on it, taking his coffee into the living room, where he sank into an upholstered chair. He propped his feet on a hassock, set the cup down on a side table, and stared at the row of framed photos on the mantel. The room was still dark, the shades drawn against the morning light, the photos hidden in shadow. They were his son and daughter and a bevy of grandchildren, in-laws and cousins, friends from earlier days now scattered around the country. And a photograph of himself and Margaret and the president, taken on the White House lawn during a signing ceremony. His thoughts kept returning to yesterday’s White House meeting.

  We’ll ride it out. We’ll hope for the best, ride it out, and look to get lucky.

  Boatmann couldn’t get past the reality that if he were living in Miami, he’d want the truth. The notion that the president and his advisors were sitting on dangerous informati
on, not sharing it with the people most at risk, had potentially appalling consequences. If things went the wrong way, that could be enough to bring the government down.

  Boatmann’s vision blurred. He divided the people in the mantel photographs into two groups: those who were safe, and those who were not. He had already warned some. Several, for one reason or another, he had not been able to find on short notice, and he was too discreet to leave messages on answering machines. But he’d try again today.

  He stirred himself, got up, drew the curtain aside, and peered out into the morning. The sky was slate-colored and the air smelled of approaching rain. Wisconsin Avenue was unusually quiet.

  His anguish was compounded by the knowledge that the president was right: A mass exodus from the coastal cities would cost lives. What were the odds that cometfall might indeed amount to nothing more than a few late-night meteor showers? There seemed to be no answer to that question. He had spent much of yesterday, after the cabinet meeting, on the Web and on the phone. Nobody knew.

  But it seemed inherently dishonest to withhold what they really believed. No matter the motivation. The system only works when there is an honest compact between government and governed.

  Easy to say. But how was he going to justify it to himself if he set off a panic?

  His coffee had gotten cold. He poured another cup. After a while he reached for the phone.

  3.

  Moonbase, Grissom Country. 8:05 A.M.

  The vice president’s call had come late the previous night, with the suggestion that Rick prepare appropriate remarks for a televised news conference today. A good opening statement. We want to be upbeat, Charlie had said. We should probably admit the uncertainties of the situation. But we’re in the hands of good old American technology. We and our foreign friends are going to come through, blah, blah, blah. The president wants us to focus attention on Moonbase problems. He’s hoping we can divert the public’s attention and stop them from jamming up the highways at home. His voice had taken a strange tone. Charlie rarely showed negative emotions about others, but he’d sounded irritated with Kolladner. While you’re at it, prepare a list of likely questions I’ll be asked. And recommended responses.

  Not that you’ll use any of them, Rick had thought.

  Anyhow, Rick arrived at the vice president’s door loaded with suggestions. Charlie’s voice invited him in. He was sitting on the sofa, turning pages in a notebook. “Good morning, Rick,” he said. “I have some ideas how this should sound.”

  “Are they that nervous at home?” Rick asked.

  “I understand the situation’s improving. But the Man is uncomfortable. And he has reason to be. You ever play poker with him?”

  Rick hadn’t. But he knew the president’s reputation. Kolladner didn’t play now, of course. There’d be no way to keep it from the media, and the public could be made to frown on a poker player in the White House. It would be the kind of thing the talk show hosts and the late-night comedians loved.

  “He’s always claimed,” Charlie said, “that he never bluffs. It isn’t true, of course. But it makes the bluff effective.”

  “He’s bluffing now? About Saturday night?”

  “Yeah, I think so. He’s scared.”

  Rick nodded. “If the worst happens, he could lose both seaboards.”

  A muscle moved in Charlie’s jaw, but he said nothing.

  Rick, who had an elemental dislike for downbeat conversations, waved it away. “I made some notes on how I think we should handle the news conference.”

  “Good. It’s scheduled for eight. Prime time, all networks and Weblinks. There’ll be several guests, including some groundside scientists who think there’s really nothing to worry about. They’ve even got one who swears the comet’s going to miss. They’re going to have Kendrick anchoring the thing. He’ll ask a few questions. I’m sure you can imagine what they’ll be. And we want soothing answers.” He sat back and looked closely at Rick. “Henry wouldn’t admit this, but if I’m reading correctly between the lines, I think the fix is in. J wonder if the president has heard more than he’s admitting.”

  “It’s the wrong move,” said Rick.

  “Why? What makes you say that?”

  “It’s just going to stir up the people who think there is a major problem. I guarantee you, within an hour after the telecast, every Ph.D. who disagrees will be holding a press conference of his own. Our best bet would be to say as little as possible, photograph the president going about routine business, and for God’s sake make sure they get pictures of his wife and grandkids down on a Florida beach.”

  “It’s too late for that now.”

  “I guess. You know, I hate to criticize a colleague, but the president needs a decent press secretary.” Rick sighed. “I saw some reports from your home state. Everybody’s clearing out. Headed west.”

  “I think I would, too,” said Charlie.

  “Yeah,” said Rick. “Especially after we tell them tonight there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Percival Lowell Utility Deck.8:14 A.M.

  Rachel received the mission postponement order while her second shipment of passengers were coming aboard.

  MARS FLIGHT CANCELED. NEW DATE NOT ESTABLISHED.

  REGRETS.

  Lee Cochran was in back getting everyone settled. Rachel ran a copy, and when the bus had pulled away, she strolled back and showed it to him. He nodded, showing no emotion. “I wonder,” he said, “if the mission will ever happen.”

  Lee’s comment stuck in Rachel’s mind while she stayed to help get everyone settled. It won’t be that way, she thought. We have the instrument to break out into the solar system; and whatever happens here, we’ll go.

  We will go.

  The passengers had been informed they’d be required to wear a breathing apparatus, but they looked askance at the devices anyhow. Several wanted assurances there were enough oxygen tanks to take care of everyone. Rachel thought how odd it was that people thought nothing of boarding a ferry or a moonbus without asking whether the life support system was adequate. But here, of course, they were holding the life support system in their hands and it worried them. There were other questions. How would they eat? In shifts. What if the mask came off while they slept? Don’t worry, if we develop a problem you won’t sleep through it. But in any case, we’ll check on you regularly. When I have to change tanks, do I have to hold my breath until we get another one? It’s a three-second changeover. You’ll be fine. Why don’t I get an oxygen mask? Everybody doesn’t need one because there’s enough air in the cabin to support eight people and then some. We’ll take turns, Rachel explained, and everybody will get some time out of the mask.

  They had a passenger list in advance and they assigned the older travelers to the astronaut quarters. Several families were with the group, four officials from various governments, one Russian industrialist, and two NASA heavyweights. Rachel knew both of course, and one, the comptroller, told her wryly that he was glad to see they’d found some use anyhow for Lowell.

  Lee was acting as flight host. He’d collected a dozen viewers from L1 and had jacks installed throughout the ship so their riders could tap into the onboard library. He showed everyone where the galley and washrooms were located, and which buttons to punch if they needed help. He demonstrated the restraint systems in the various seats, and gave webbing to those who did not have seats. He stayed with them, helping them tie down, until he was satisfied they were safe.

  Rachel put on her most reassuring manner. Flight time to Skyport would be about nineteen hours. They’d arrive around four o’clock Friday morning, have breakfast, and would then be able to board one of the space planes that would be waiting to take them home. Nothing to worry about, she said. Sorry about the inconvenience. Just remember to keep the mask on and breathe normally and we’ll all do fine. If you need to take the mask off for any reason, go ahead, it’s no problem. If you feel you have to keep it off, please be sure to let us know.

 
“You’ve got real talent for this,” Lee told her.

  She went back to the flight deck and looked out at the comet. It was east of the Moon, getting bigger. The tails were now easily visible to the naked eye.

  She switched on the PA. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to get under way. We’ll be taking it slow and easy, but you’ll still feel some push. The ship will be accelerating for about ten minutes. Please don’t try to move around until after we tell you it’s okay to do so.” She could still see the lights of the second bus, pale and lonely, drifting into the dark.

  Lee came in and sat down beside her. “All set,” he said.

  She nodded, and pushed the throttles forward.

  The nuclear plant was quieter and smoother than a chemical rocket. NASA had done extensive testing of the nuke in the Mojave and at L1 and had run hundreds of simulations. The ship’s crew had taken Lowell on a few local test flights. Around the Moon and back, that sort of thing. But this was the first time that a nuclear-powered spaceship could be said to be operational. “We live in historic times,” Lee observed.

  “Yeah.” Her wrist was pale in the glow of the instrument panel. “That we do, lad.”

  Arlington, Virginia. 9:16 A.M.

  Mary-Lynn Jamison of Washington Online was working on the Arnold Cloud story when her phone rang. Cloud was a Midwestern congressman who had apparently hired a hit man to murder his wife. In this case, it appeared that the motive had not been another woman, nor even insurance. Rather, Cloud was in trouble in his home district, and he planned to claim that organized crime had wanted to send him a message. The cops were suspicious, but the congressman had the goods on a lot of people around Washington, and those persons, in a minor panic, were calling in favors. The authorities were under pressure to look the other way, but Mary-Lynn had enough thread to begin unraveling the entire story.

  “Jamison,” she said into the phone.

  “Mary-Lynn, how are you?”

  She recognized the secretary of transportation’s voice. “Hello, Harold,” she said.

  “No recordings, Mary-Lynn.”