EMERGENCE (34 page)

Gayle smiled. "Your original question was, 'What are we doing about the bomb?' Happily, some 30 or so of us—the expanded us, not just the AAs—were key NASA people. I say 'happily' because our only hope of escaping two centuries of underground living—assuming we survive the earthquakes—is to launch the
Nathan Hale . . ."
We rounded corner and Gayle indicated monstrous assembly poised on pad with casual wave surely more appropriate for discussing weather than
H. sapiens'
ultimate technological achievement. ". . . rendezvous with the bomb in orbit, and deactivate it."

(Something in statement tugged fretfully at psyche, but instantly forgotten in rush of amazement over scale of plan.)

Briefly reinforced hoary, naïve-ruralite stereotypes by stopping abruptly, gawking openmouthed in unfeigned wonder at monstrous spacecraft looming overhead. Television doesn't come close to conveying scale. Bigger close-up than appears on tube. Lots.

Proximity to technological marvel stimulated imagination, triggered inspiration; conceived possible solution, far less complicated: "Gayle, if you can launch a shuttle, why not send up a big thermonuclear ICBM—oh . . ." Realized, even as spoke, couldn't be that easy, or already
fait accompli.

Gayle apparently still reading mind—or whatever—nodded approvingly as reached proper conclusion. "The
Bratstvo
thought of that and took precautions. First, the entire vehicle in which the bomb is housed is constructed of a new lightweight, long-molecule material that seems to be sort of a metallic polymer.

"Becky Chamberlin, one of our best metallurgists—plastics are her second love—had a chance to play with a sample shortly before the attack. She says it's so strong and such a fabulous insulator that, in space, that bomb could probably ride out a multimegaton, near-direct hit without damage—depending on how well the components are packaged, of course.

"But it doesn't have to; it mounts quite capable defenses: the latest analytical radar, a sophisticated computer, and lasers capable of destroying any missile long before it gets close enough to constitute a threat. Finally, it's programmed to initiate reentry the moment it's attacked."

"How did we get the sample?"

"One of our number was a quadruple agent . . ." Gayle paused, noting blank expression; elaborated: "One of us, pretending to them to pretend to us to work for us while actually spying on them as well as a fourth party—got that?"

"This spy business sounds unprincipled, deceitful, and entirely too complicated," I replied with mock disapproval.

"Of course it is." She grinned. "That's the way things were in the old days: All professions cloaked themselves in as much mystery as possible—spies were nowhere near as bad in that respect as, say, real estate appraisers.

"Anyway, Wallace Griffin allowed himself to be recruited by the
Bratstvo
while he was in Russia, supposedly undergoing training with the KGB for his work in the U.S. Quite
a
few of the KGB were members, and they were always on the lookout for likely prospects. Wallace is good at his job: While ostensibly helping program the on-board computer, he managed to microfilm the bomb's entire schematics package—warhead, drive, guidance system, software, and all. He's the one who brought back the material sample.

"Then, only days before the attack, everything Wallace learned was confirmed when one of the
Bratstvo's
people tried unsuccessfully to defect and warn the world. His name is Kyril Svetlanov; he was an inner-circle figure among the fanatics. But his story wasn't believed any more than ours was; so we took him in, and he's been helping us ever since. He's our resident strontium-90 bomb expert: He was involved in its design, construction, and launching, and works harder than anyone here, with the possible exception of Teacher. But that's understandable: In his place, I wouldn't be able to
live
with the guilt!"

Cast sidelong glance at Gayle. Did not appear type to believe in Santa Claus. She noticed, grinned, addressed unspoken doubt: "Yes, we
did
find it suspicious that a highly placed member of such a fanatical organization should suffer so convenient a change of heart, turning up just when we needed the specific information on which he was a leading expert. But we investigated his story from every possible angle, even interrogating him under drug-augmented, deep hypnosis, and everything checked.

"We've assigned him to the bomb deactivation phase of the project. And since then we've tested him further: At various times we produced data which we knew was erroneous, and led him to believe that we believed it valid and were going to include it in our planning. They were reasonable errors, of the sort which might have been introduced through faulty translation from Russian or even data missing due to incomplete intelligence-gathering, but which almost certainly would have scuttled us in the end.

"Each time he caught and corrected the mistake. Once, when we
insisted
that we knew what we were doing, he threw up his hands and was on the point of quitting, stating that we had doomed the project and further effort was pointless. He's passed every test with flying colors.

"I've studied him myself as closely as I know how, and I've never spotted even a suggestion that he's not sincere. And finally, he's going along on the
Hale
to make sure everything goes all right, which is in itself pretty convincing evidence of his sincerity and desire to atone. Even so, of course, he's
never
alone."

(That disquieting
something
nudged psyche again, but still couldn't put finger on cause.)

Gayle continued as we rounded building's corner. "You'll see him at the meeting—there he is now, and here we are," she finished, pointing out young man as we arrived at meeting site.

Populace assembling in bleachers arranged in semicircle before elevated platform outside launch control center, near huge payload preparation room; everyone present who could be spared even momentarily from duties: numbered in hundreds . . .

And at stage center was
Teacher
!

Undignified shriek, run-and-hug, probably disrupted proceedings, if any in progress; but didn't care, and nobody else seemed to mind—Teacher least of all. Long time before he let go. Finally held me out at arms' length; scrutinized head to foot. "I think you're in better shape now than when I last saw you in Wisconsin," he said approvingly.

Smile wreathed features, eyes sparkled; but strain, fatigue, perhaps even something which might be mistaken for desperation (in anyone besides
Teacher
) showed in features. And as watched, light died, lines deepened, shoulders sagged.

Voice somber as stated, "I'm astonished that you found us."

"Just lucky," I replied. "I was in the right place at the right time. I heard a sonic boom, looked up, and saw a contrail. If I hadn't run into trouble the day before, we'd have been probably 200 miles from there."

Teacher looked up thoughtfully, momentarily distracted from problems. "With the whole of the North American continent to search, you 'just happened' to see, and be close enough to take advantage of the return of, the first supplies-gathering expedition we've sent out in two months, which will be the last for quite some time to come." Regarded me quizzically. "Coincidence on that scale is difficult to credit, and we hominems are a largely unknown commodity. I wonder where a study of the mechanics of that sort of phenomenon might be commenced, and in what direction it might lead . . . ."

Strain returned to features as Teacher continued. "I had planned to take you with me. But I returned to find you securely locked in your shelter, with both telephone and computer terminal unresponsive—for what reason, I can't imagine.

"I wanted to tell you in the letter where we were going—where the AAs were going, that is; at the time it did not appear that I would be a lasting consideration—and why. But I could not; I hope you can understand why I could not. The best I could do was introduce you to your heritage and suggest that you start looking for your peers.

"I intended to send someone back to search for you as soon as it became possible, but so far it has not: For an amateur group as small as ours to modify and prepare for launch a shuttle, normally groomed by an army comprising several thousand intensively trained experts, in the time allotted, is no modest task. We have not been able to spare
anyone.
"

"I guess that answers my next question." I sighed. "My family—my adopted family—is searching the Sierra Nevadas for my body. I'd like to go find them and bring them here. You can't spare a crew, maybe with a helicopter . . . ?"

Teacher shook head slowly. "No; I'm sorry. If you can wait until we've launched the
Hale,
then certainly. But that will leave precious little time in which to find and warn them, should the mission fail, won't it?

"Though . . ." Teacher's eyes closed briefly in pain, ". . . of course in that case they'll just have to go into the lottery with everyone else. They'll be among those for whom the question of whether there is room will be decided by chance.

"Mind you," he added quickly, "the lottery applies only to adults; you children are included automatically."

Teacher blinked then, as if suddenly remembered whom talking to. "I don't mean to sound patronizing, Candy. If it should come to that, it boils down to a question of racial survival. We must attempt to save the young and those possessing the knowledge and skills which will improve their chances. Where possible, those with knowledge will
be
the young. No one in my age bracket, whose skills are duplicated by anyone younger, will be eligible for the drawing."

Understood that. And mortally ashamed at depth of relief I experienced on learning own place in shelter assured, along with Adam, Lisa.

But what if Kim left out . . . ?

Or Terry!—
surely Teacher wouldn't exclude twin!
After all, doesn't take much room, eats like a . . .

No. Now neither time nor place for that discussion. Question probably never arise anyway;
Hale's
mission surely successful. No benefit to increasing Teacher's burden prematurely, perhaps unnecessarily.

Immediate problem was locating family. Wanted to get them back here soon as possible; be on hand myself, make limited talents available in any manner planners might deem helpful (as well as family's talents—Kim's, Adam's not nearly so limited).

Only extraneous body in vicinity clearly mine; would have to go myself. Decided to leave first thing in morning. No idea how long search might take, but sitting ducks up there for earthquake, fallout; had to try to get them to AAs' shelters before scheduled bomb fall, just in case.

Then worry about lottery.

Noticed Teacher looking over crowd; wondered if missed anything while woolgathering. "I think everyone able to attend has arrived. I must call the meeting to order. Why don't you sit up here with us? There is plenty of room." Stepped toward podium, gathering notes; cleared throat, switched on mike.

I looked around at stage. Consisted of raised platform some 30 feet wide, ten deep. Easel at stage center, just behind podium, held large presentation board. One end of stage littered with odd-looking machinery.

On ground beyond stood large, complicated sculpture with one curved wall, many convolutions, interior open on side toward crowd. If let imagination wander, could easily have been pie slice from cutaway aircraft mock-up. Or giant 3-D rat maze. Bracing crowded interior; one inside surface covered with projections, knobs, dials, tangles of wiring gathered in messy looms. Looked like awkward place to get around in. Small oblong opening in intermediate wall peeked through at wall to which majority of découpage affixed.

Settled in chair near enigmatic artifact; tried to look inconspicuous. Gayle took seat next to me, smiled reassuringly. Grateful for presence; felt very much out of place.

Teacher opened meeting with brief, forced-sounding pleasantries; then discussed progress to date in preparing
Nathan Hale
for launch.

(And suddenly identified source of subliminal itch bothering me since Gayle's first mention of shuttle: Familiar with names of NASA's shuttles;
Nathan Hale
not among them. Apparently AAs rechristened. Well, sure; why not? Previous owners unlikely to object. Besides, had heroic sort of ring to it; sounded neat [though
not
as neat as
Enterprise
—cheapest of evasions to pretend to honor lobby's request; then waste name on mock-up intended for glide tests only!].)

Teacher praised collective efforts to date: Group had faced, overcome immense, unprecedented challenges. Among most pressing: Fact that shuttles never intended for geosynchronous orbit work. Designed, constructed as low-orbit ferries, operating no higher than about 700 miles.

But hominems worked miracles: Devised fittings to mount four solid booster rockets in place of usual two. New trick liquid fuel mixture boosted main engine thrust efficiency several critical percent, improved consumption picture. Cargo bay now accommodated huge custom-built orbital maneuvering system tank (much larger than earlier OMS kits).

Ship also lightened substantially; almost gutted, in fact. Everything extraneous to mission ripped out: Air, food, water storage cut down to irreducible minimum. Storage cabinets, noncritical instrumentation, crew's "amenities" discarded. Landing-gear system removed
in toto. . . .

(Good thinking: Shuttle expendable after mission; parachutes adequate for crew.)

Aerodynamic control surfaces permanently locked in neutral; related hydraulics, computers, sensors, control sticks, pedals, etc., gone . . .

(Goggled when heard that; couldn't imagine how expected to manage reentry.)

. . . along with all exterior insulation.

(Say
what?
)

Calculations showed
Nathan Hale
now capable of attaining desired orbit.