EMERGENCE (35 page)

Just.

Chin dropped; heard own voice involuntarily whisper,
"Oh . . . !"
as finally caught on.

Now understood shuttle's new name:
Nathan Hale—
"My only regret is that I have but one life . . ."

One-way trip.

Volunteers all, three-man crew would attempt to reach bomb, disarm . . .

And die!

Vision blurred. Felt tear start down cheek. Others followed.

Gayle noticed; divined cause. Leaned close, whispered that crew selected from entire population at launch center—every person involved in project volunteered; AAs, ABs alike.

Shook head; tried to envision what must feel like to step forward, with full knowledge of facts; make rational, intelligent, premeditated decision to give life so others might live.

Couldn't.

Spontaneous, unthinking heroism understandable; bravery in heat of battle, excitement of moment, not uncommon (been known to yield to occasional rash impulse myself); but this—courage required simply defied comprehension . . . !

Blinked away tears to gaze out over crowd in awe. And as stared, felt unfamiliar stirring: undefinable, comforting. Source eluded identification; but awareness of assemblage somehow expanding, deepening. Vaguely realized was perceiving bond extending beyond present mutual predicament, project, goals. Shared warmth, togetherness almost tangible: Glow slowly pervaded, suffused entire being. Heart swelled, soul thrilled to sudden, absolute knowledge that sapiency's new standard-bearers well chosen.

Slow tears resumed, but proudly now—my people worthy inheritors. Earth in
good
hands . . . .

Kyril stood, joined Teacher at board. Regarded him with new awareness, appreciation; understood Gayle's comment now about how insistence upon inclusion in
Hale's
crew lent credence to change of heart, penitence. Tall, handsome man, but wore same dejected air as Teacher.

Unveiled large multiple-overlay transparency cutaway drawing of bomb, missile in which housed. Launched into discussion of vehicle's weaknesses. Of which, turned out, were damned few!

Equipped with sophisticated computer, detection/analysis equipment; mounted lasers capable of crisping approaching missile like moth in oxyacetylene flame; structurally invulnerable, in practical terms; everything but propulsion nuclear powered—rocket engines conventional, but more efficient: next generation development permitted by new material, capable of ten gees.

Fanatics planned, built well. Doomsday machine no pushover.

But not omnipotent. Planners mortal men. Achilles' heel of every computer-controlled mechanism is software written by selfsame mortal men, trying to anticipate, cope with hypothetical future problems—forced by memory storage limitations to choose which, amongst whole spectrum, most likely to materialize—determine appropriate responses. Programming limited bomb's awareness of, response to, stimuli likely to be missiles: high-speed metallic objects exceeding certain mass, approaching within hundred-mile spherical perimeter, whose plotted trajectories come within five miles.

Kyril not personally involved in detection-package development, but opined, from general knowledge of project requirements, that slowly moving men in spacesuits, even if picked up by radar, probably ignored by computer. Probably.

Teacher's experts, after poring over liberated drawings, software, over period of weeks, in substantial agreement: Components resulting therefrom unlikely to care about indistinct signals returned by small, slow, essentially nonferrous targets.

Therefore, strategy arrived at called for parking
Hale
safe distance back, proceeding to bomb in spacesuits, using manned maneuvering units; forcing launch service access hatch, entering vehicle; sending robot equipped with TV cameras, powerful waldos, through inner shell hatch (too small for man in spacesuit) to pull plug.

However, project in trouble. Big trouble. Quite possibly insurmountable trouble: Robot development not progressing as anticipated. . . .

"In the months during which we have been working on this problem," sighed Teacher, shoulders slumped, "we have advanced the field of robotics well beyond the point at which we found it. We have accomplished amazing things; but unfortunately they have not been the amazing things which we set out to accomplish. We are now at a dead end."

Couldn't believe ears, eyes!
Teacher
—sounding, looking,
acting
as if defeated!

"Which is why we've called this meeting," he continued more resolutely. "We need fresh input and we need it
now.

"You all were furnished copies of drawings as you arrived. They depict the attempts we have made so far to come up with a usable design."

Noticed everyone but self had sheaf of paper. Nudged Gayle, elevated brow. She nodded, passed me extra. Glanced through quickly, noting salient details.

Teacher continued without pause: "The first sheet is a list of design criteria, beginning with the initially limiting factor of the inner shell access hatch size, 9 inches by 14; and going on to detail grip strength required of waldos, forces necessary in push, pull, and torque functions; and drawings of the machine's anticipated route from the hatch and working environment inside the bomb, illustrating all known handholds and obstructions.

"Those of you with suggestions are asked to come up and view the full-scale mock-up of the bomb's interior . . ."

Oh, so that's what this thing was. Stood quietly, stepped down from stage, compared drawings to replication. Clearly drawn; easily matched up. Curved wall was outer hull, with main access hatch. Tiny inner shell access hatch mounted on next wall in. That bulge indicated warhead location, buried near center of nose cone. There was umbilicus plug, last thing disconnected before launch. On-board computer behind that panel there, etc.

And there, at center of cobweb of wiring, all needing to be removed in correct order first, was detonator, accessible only after squeezing through tiny bottleneck hatch, climbing past maze of structural bracing. Would take boneless, acrobatic midget to get in there in first place.

But disarming didn't look too complicated: Remove wiring in proper order, unbolt cover, extract shaped charge by seizing shaft ridges, pulling out. And—oh, yeah, shaft/socket tolerances finely machined, snug fit; 400-500 pounds of force required for extraction, twisting as emerges to clear obstructions. Midget better be husky sucker.

Could see problem now: Complicated, overlapping, multiple functions involved in basic task placed heavy demands upon small machine lacking both tactile feedback for operator guidance and joint flexibility of human hands, wrists, elbows, shoulders. Robot's need to stabilize self while working in weightless environment posed additional problems. As did necessity of finding room for high-resolution, closed-circuit color television camera to enable operators to maneuver unit along tortuous route from hatch to detonator site, carry out assignment.

"No one has ever attempted to extract so many functions from a single machine of such small size," Teacher went on.

(Certainly believed that!)

"We have managed to duplicate each function called for separately, but have not managed to combine them all in one machine of the requisite size. It is beginning to seem probable that we will not succeed before time runs out: The latest possible launch date is only seven days off; and it would be better not to delay until then, in case we run into last-second glitches.

"I don't think anyone here misses the implications: This problem
must
be solved, and within seven days. If our pooled inventiveness fails to come up with a solution by then, our efforts here will have been in vain; we will have no choice but to abandon this work and hasten back to the shelters.

"We all know, however, that the shelters are capable of supporting a maximum of 500 people. A lottery will be held to determine who goes in and who stays out.

"Those remaining outside have virtually no chance of survival: Earthquakes, vulcanically generated airborne toxicity, and fallout will see to that.

"Even the survival of those inside the shelters is questionable, hinging upon whether they emerge from the period of seismic violence sufficiently intact. Our seismologists and engineers hold out little encouragement. In fact, were it not for the fallout and poisonous emissions, it might be safer to attempt to ride it out on the surface."

Teacher winding down; other speakers queuing up to augment presentation. People already converging on mockup, scanning drawings, examining robots, conversing in muted tones. I resumed seat to keep out of way.

Meeting dragged on for hours. Endless succession of hopefuls approached, put heads together, offered suggestions, argued, compared notes, eventually left, shaking heads. I passed time chatting with Gayle, Teacher too, when neither occupied.

In between, to degree possible without being pushy, I eavesdropped. And of course bent own thoughts to problem at hand. But not mechanical or electrical engineer or programmer— nor much of anything else useful for that matter. Generally kept mouth shut; self out of everyone's way.

And worried, of course: With room for only 500 people split between two shelters—one even less likely to come through quakes than other—something on order of 6-, 700 people out in cold if mission fails. And beginning to look as if might: Robot problem no closer to solution now than when meeting began.

Wished Adam, Kim here; no idea whether might contribute or not—just missed them. And Lisa. And especially Terry. Even Tora-chan—bet he wouldn't be allowed in shelters either: Too old; mousing, purring, lap-sitting probably not adjudged "useful skills." Or if so, possessed by someone younger.

Despairing atmosphere infectious; reinforced own self-pity, worry over family's, friends' chances. Gloom deepened as person after person, expert after expert, approached with varying degrees of confidence, gave it best shot, resuming seat shortly thereafter, looking glum. Presently trickle slowed, stopped.

Teacher looked around for more. Expression betrayed depth of disappointment as realized think tank dry. Glanced at Kyril. Russian shrugged, shook head; returned to chair, sat heavily, head hanging.

Teacher rotated slowly, searching faces hopelessly. Our eyes met at exact moment—

Oh!
Of course. How. . .
obvious!

Conclusion, decision, accompanying shock, must have shown on face; for Teacher's thoughts paralleled own, arriving at identical solution merest fraction thereafter. Have never seen anyone look so stricken. For endless seconds old Chinese gazed into, through my soul. Then set jaw, drew himself erect, eyes shining with love, pride, tears. Nodded imperceptibly; watched in silence as I rose jerkily from seat, suddenly nerveless fingers cascading stage with papers, soft-drink can, remaining munchies.

Own slow tears resumed but interfered with vision hardly at all as retrieved diagram, tucked into pocket, stepped down from stage, forced unwilling feet to propel me to mock-up.

Stepped through outer door, strode to tiny inner hatch opening, poked head through, looked around for handholds. Inserted shoulders, first one, then other. Grabbed convenient truss, pulled torso through. Hips, fanny snug fit; harbinger of Better Things To Come (pity will never find out).

Ignored suddenly buzzing audience visible through cutaway's open side. Wormed way between hull braces to detonator site. Wiring complexity immaterial just then; yanked loose
en masse.

Then produced diagram, studied briefly. Positioned self carefully on back, planted feet on either side of detonator shaft. Took firm grip. Drew long breath, released slowly; took another, whispered hysterical-strength tap trigger, and

. . .
PULLED!

Didn't even require major effort. Audience gasped as shaft slid easily outward. Shortly encountered obstruction. Experimented, turning one way, then other; pulled again.

Moments later stepped out through cutaway, carrying detonator in one hand. Stunned hush marked progress back to center stage where Teacher waited, tears streaming down wrinkled cheeks. Own tears still flowed but control holding otherwise; breathing almost normal, hands steady.

Carefully set down detonator, stood, put arms around dearest friend. Marveled again how solid he felt, despite years. Held him tightly for long moments; wishing could do something to ease silent convulsions wracking him. But cause obvious, situation inescapable; we both knew it.

Released him, put hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoes, placed kiss on wet cheek.

Stepped to podium, pulled mike down within reach. Felt curiously at peace as looked out over all those people. All
my
people.

Surprisingly easy to get words out; voice clear, firm, unwavering as took deep breath, said, "Does anybody know how to take in a spacesuit?"

Well, not quite that simple, of course. Even after predictably outraged debate over including 11-year-old in suicide mission faded before dearth of alternate suggestions, practical difficulties remained:

Among which, spacesuit more complicated to "take in" than pair of jeans. Principal challenges: one-piece plastic bubble helmet; neck, waist sealing rings; portable life-support-system package; aluminum frame surrounding chest, hips—all rigid; all products of elaborate engineering, exacting manufacturing procedures; all exceeding 9–by-14 hatch dimensions by substantial margins, even in smallest of three available sizes.

But given no opportunity to follow tailors' progress; had own problems: Rushed immediately into astronaut training (
immediately
: that night—only six days remaining in which to master necessary skills).

See: Launch one of mission's more critical stages; process rife with opportunities for sabotage. Original crew consisted of one seasoned NASA shuttle pilot, one experienced civilian test pilot, one
Bratstvo
defector. Assigning two most experienced pilots to do flying permitted tactfully glossing over fact that Kyril, still not entirely trusted, was being kept away from vital equipment. My presence unavoidably sundered gentlemanly façade: Minimum personnel boiled down to one pilot, one bomb expert, one husky midget. Retaining original copilot not fuel efficient: only valid criterion.