Moonfall (50 page)

Charlie stared at the communication console. Even out here, under these circumstances, it was all politics. And he understood immediately what Rachel Quinn—he’d met her
once—wanted.
Don’t forget Mars
. “Thank you,” he said, keeping the resentment out of his voice. “We’re all delighted to see you.”

Something banged against the hull; one last rock for the Micro. They paused, listening for alarms. But no klaxons sounded and no red lights blinked on.

Sensing his discomfort, Saber rescued him: “
Lowell
, are we ready to make the transfer?”

“At your pleasure. Do you have any power at all?”

“Negative.”

“Okay. Just sit tight. We’ll take care of everything.”

The interplanetary ship acquired definition. It was a long, elegant vessel, spare and utilitarian, lights glowing warmly. The civilization that could build such a vehicle and send it off into the dark certainly had a future. Charlie resolved that he would not stand by and allow that future to be sidetracked.

His cell phone chimed. “Yes, Al?”

“Bad news, Charlie. The Possums coming back.”

He was so numbed by the litany of disaster stories that it seemed like just one more, an extra statistic in a train wreck.

“You mean coming
down?
” he said at last.

“Yeah.”

His eyes closed, trying to shut out the sense of the vast emptiness beyond the bulkhead.

“When? How long?”

“Tuesday morning. Around five.”

Charlie pulled a headset on. “Are they sure?”

“Yeah. Well, they’re saying it’s too early to be absolutely certain, but they want us to assume the worst.”

“Okay. Get back to Feinberg, get NASA, and get the facts. There’s no room here for guesswork.”

“Okay, Mr. President.”

Charlie didn’t miss the switch back to formality. “Where?” he asked. “Where’s it going to hit?”

“Looks like the middle of Kansas.”

“My God. We don’t get a break, do we? Okay, Al, we’ll have to go back to the nukes.”

“That’s what we thought. We can’t just stand by—”

“Absolutely. Let me know what you come up with. Everything else goes to the back burner. We need to get rid of this son of a bitch. Don’t just talk to the military. Talk to Feinberg and anybody else out there who might have an idea what we can do. Have them double-check the numbers.” He watched the lights of the
Lowell
getting brighter. “What else have you got?”

“I’m hot sure what to do about Henry. We’ve announced a joint memorial service Wednesday for him and Emily. But there’s some disagreement about how to do it. Anything elaborate might not look good with the way things are now. His family thinks, under the circumstances, we should keep it modest.”

Thank God. There at least was a problem that was managable. “Listen, Al, if you’re right about the Possum on Tuesday, there might not
be
a Wednesday.”

Kerr did not respond.

“The family’s right,” Charlie continued. “Keep it small. Tasteful but small. The country doesn’t need a parade right now. After we get through this, maybe we can do something more. Any chance of getting back into Washington by Tuesday or so?”

“The city’s still under water.”

“Okay. Look, Henry was a yet. A Marine. If the families agree, let’s run the memorial at Arlington. That’s high ground. They’re okay over there, right?”

“I suppose so,”

“Do it. Bring in the Marine band. He’d like that. Fire the weapons, fly some jets overhead. The missing man, right? Just keep it modest.”

“Yes, sit. What about the government offices? We need to get running again.”

“Al, you’re on the spot. Figure out what needs to be done and do it. Close up and give the hordes a few days off. Find some temporary space somewhere. But keep a presence. Understand?”

“Sure. But—”

“Take care of the details. I’m about to be rescued and I want to enjoy it.”

“Okay, Charlie. By the way, I’m glad to hear it. We’ve been worried.”

Charlie disconnected, returned to the passenger cabin, and took a window seat beside Evelyn.
Lowell
was running parallel with them now. It drew closer and he could see into the interior, see someone moving.

“Unforgettable moment, Charlie,” Evelyn whispered. “This’ll be a major TV movie next year.”

“I hope so,” he said.

The
Percival Lowell
had been described as the principal engineering marvel to date of the century. Its proponents maintained that it was the key to opening the solar system to exploration and development. With the technology that had been employed on this vehicle, no one knew what the limits might be.

The
Lowell
moved in close and Charlie could count the rivets. “Everybody please belt down.” Saber’s voice.

Morky was speaking quietly into his mike. Charlie didn’t know whether he was broadcasting or recording impressions until he saw the journalist’s picture—a still—on one of the displays, with the legend:
LIVE FROM THE PRESIDENT’S MOONBUS
.

There was a heaviness in the air, compounded by the sweaty pungency of human bodies that had lived too long with fear and without showers. The chaplain was seated behind him. He leaned forward. “Mr. President, I’m happy to have
had the chance to get to know you.” He spoke in a tone that sounded like good-bye.

Charlie understood. Once they got safely across to
Lowell
, the last hazard would have been passed and the last intimacy would drain away. “Me, too,” he said. “Maybe you can come over for lunch when we get home.” Halfway through the remark, he realized it was the wrong thing to say, simultaneously pretentious and mindless. But he was committed, so he blundered ahead.

“That would be nice,” said the chaplain with a straight face.

Lowell
was now within about twenty meters. One of its hatches swung wide, and someone in a p-suit emerged. The astronaut looked up, saw Charlie and the others watching him, and waved.

Propelled by a jetpack, he pushed away from
Lowell
.

“They’re going to take Bigfbot and Tony aboard first,” Saber told them. “It’ll take a while before they get to us.”

Forty minutes later they were ready to go. The airlock opened and Charlie took a last look around the passenger cabin. The chaplain caught his glance and nodded. “What’ll happen to it, do you think?” he asked.

“It’ll make Jupiter eventually,” said Saber. “There won’t be any effort to retrieve it. It’s not practical.”

“I don’t know,” said Motley, speaking simultaneously to them and to his audience. “I suspect this rig’ll have real historical value eventually.”

“If the historians want it,” said Saber, “I think they’re going to have to get it for themselves.”

But Morley was right. And Charlie suspected that if they all came through this, if the nation survived, and the world went on, there’d eventually be an attempt to recover the Micro. He could visualize it standing one day in the Smithsonian. Of course, the prospects for that might depend on what kind of
president it had rescued. Nobody would have gone far to recover a Jamas Buchanan artifact.

10.

TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT
. 3:53
P.M.

TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT
. 3:58
P.M.

Percival Lowell
Utility Deck. 4:11
P.M.

Major Lee Cochran, in a white dress uniform, was waiting when Charlie stepped through the hatch. He snapped a salute. “Welcome aboard
Percival Lowell
, Mr. President.” A full-throated version of “Hail to the Chief” roared out of the sound system. Charlie had to make a conscious effort not to show his dismay, but everything froze while the march went on, until he signaled that he was gratified and that it could be turned down or off. Someone reduced the volume. “I’m Major Cochran, sir,” he snapped. “The captain asked me to present her regrets that she could not be here personally, but the situation requires her presence on the flight deck.”

Charlie nodded and smiled. “Thanks, Lee,” he said. He’d been introduced to both astronauts a week before on L1.
Cochran glowed at the use of his first name. “I didn’t expect to see you again quite so soon,” the president continued. They were standing in a small chamber lined with lockers and storage bins.

The others came through the airlock: Evelyn, who’d regained some of her imperious manner; Morley, talking into his microphone, his voice low; the chaplain, withdrawn and silent.

The major threw a disapproving glance in the journalist’s direction, but said nothing. Saber brought up the rear, looking pleased to have responsibility shifted to other shoulders. Cochran peered through the connecting port. “Is that everybody?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Saber.

He nodded, closed the hatch, and hit a couple of press-pads.
Lowell
rolled slightly and lamps changed color. “Everybody get hold of something,” he said. He spoke into a commboard: “Rachel, pickup’s complete. We’re clear.”

Charlie felt the ship change direction. “Mr. President,” said Cochran, “you’ll have the mission commander’s quarters. If you and your…” he paused, looking for the right word, “associates will follow me, please.”

Lowell
seemed smaller now to Charlie than it had during his LI inspection. The passageways were narrow, the spaces jammed with equipment, the appointments utilitarian. The mission commander’s quarters, which might have appeared cramped under other conditions, seemed almost spacious in comparison. The bunk was drawn up into the bulkhead. There was a chair and a desk with an overhead display. Drawers and closet space were built into the walls. Two towels, a comb, a cup, and a tube of toothpaste were secured to the chair. An extra-large
Percival Lowell
jumpsuit was laid out for him. It was complete with a mission insignia and a
HASKELL
label across the left breast pocket.

Cochran invited him to call if he needed anything, showed him how to use the intercom, and how to tie into ship’s communications. “We have two-way visual from the flight deck, Mr. President, should you have need.”

“Thanks,” said Charlie.

He pointed to a pair of doors at the end of the passageway. “I’m afraid we don’t have private bath facilities,” he said. “Use either.”

After Cochran withdrew, Charlie pushed his bag into a cabinet, picked up the jumpsuit, his electric razor, and a. few toiletries, and made his way to the washrooms. One was occupied.

He opened the other and squeezed inside. He stood for a moment, contemplating the compartment, with its clumsy zero-g toilet and its ultrasonic scrubbers. When he’d looked at
Lowell
before, he’d wondered what would possess anyone to commit to live two or three years cooped up inside her claustrophobic spaces. His first thought had been that humans probably shouldn’t go to Mars until they could go in style.

His second thought had been that TR would have disapproved roundly of such a notion. Still, the first President Roosevelt hadn’t been put to the test. Charlie himself enjoyed living in the wilderness, as TR had. That wasn’t at all the same as walling oneself up in the high-tech equivalent of a cheap hotel with no exit.

He stripped, pushed his used clothing into a plastic bag, and turned on the scrubber. His flesh tingled, although not the way it would have under a hot shower. The grime flaked away and he rubbed off the residue with one of the towels. When he’d finished, he was clean, but he didn’t really
feel
clean. He would gladly, he decided, leave space flight to others.

His phone was chiming when he arrived back at his quarters. “Haskell.”

It was Al. “It’s confirmed. The Possum’s going to hit Kansas.”

“Okay.” Charlie had expected no less.

“I’m sorry.” Kerr paused, maybe feeling a need to change the subject. “I see you got on board
Lowell
. We’ve been following the whole thing. You’re getting great press. What did you do, buy off this guy Motley?”

“He’s doing a good job, isn’t he? Rick’d be proud.”

Charlie was trying to decide what to do about the Possum. He wished now he’d taken his chances with the nukes. Maybe they’d have knocked it onto a different course. He’d still have to try to blow it apart, but now it would be abound.

“Feinberg wants to talk to you again,” said Al.

“What’s he saying?”

“He won’t tell any of us.”

“Okay. Get him for me. Make sure he’s got a scrambler.” Charlie disconnected and watched the walls close in. He was deathly afraid they’d spotted another rock. His stomach began to twist, and he thought about Henry during the early days of the crisis, responsible for all those lives, and then knowing before he died that he’d made the wrong call.

The phone chimed again. “Mr. President.” Female voice. He’d expected to hear Kerr saying he was about to switch him to Feinberg. But this was Rachel Quinn.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Sir, two things. We grabbed some prepared meals from Skyport’s galley before we launched. I’d like to invite you and the other passengers to join us at my table for dinner.”

“I’d be delighted, Rachel.”

Her voice softened, became less formal. “Is seven o’clock suitable, sir? Or would you rather eat earlier?”

“No, that’s good.”