EMERGENCE (44 page)

Countdown timer showed 57 seconds to go. Placed arms carefully under straps at sides. Began breathing deeply, rapidly as possible; wanted to hyperventilate, carry oxygen surplus into deorbit burn: No idea if breathing possible under ten gees.

Counted off seconds in head. Discovered internal clock needs adjustment: Heard APUs (or whatever
Khraniteli
call theirs) start up at minus 30 seconds; then detected heavy vibration, deep rumble at about minus 15 as main engines fired, built up to operating pressure . . .

And suddenly very glad hyperventilated: Had time for single final inhalation as gees mounted; then could
not
breathe. Or move. Or do anything else beyond wishing ghastly, crushing pressure would end.

Experimentally tried to move finger. Any finger. Could. Just. Didn't try to move anything else.

Terrible ride seemed endless: Pressure, noise, vibration went on and on and on and . . .

Suddenly floated up against straps as compression of cushions, own tissues, released. Deorbit burn
over
. . .!

But quickly squelched rising jubilation: Gee forces least of worries.

And had work to do—most vital work of all: writing this record. Spent roughly last hour and quarter scribbling feverishly by light of now-dying flashlight, hurrying to finish before bomb completes dive, arrives at cometary orbit's perigee where main engines cut in again.

Dragging heels at ten gees chops 320 feet per second from velocity each second. That's 19,200 feet, three and a half miles per second, slower per minute. To stop ship entirely, drop into atmosphere without reentry-heat problems, would require braking for roughly minute and half. Very much doubt will happen that way.

However, preparations made (to extent possible): My spare EMU already inside Kyril's EMU's lower torso, lacking only helmet. Kyril's unit's lower torso already in spare adult EMU's lower torso. Both adult suits' upper torsos already assembled: helmets, gloves, etc.

Life-support lines from my spare's remote PLSS lead in through small slits in adult torsos. Stripped PLSS from Kyril's EMU: Of no benefit inside outer suit; any heat it extracts from interior only has to be removed second time by outer suit's PLSS.

After final braking, before atmospheric contact, will place record inside my spare, install helmet; assemble Kyril's around it, uninflated; then assemble adult spare around both. Pretty squishy, but fits (already tried it for practice).

Once record tucked inside innermost EMU, all three buttoned up, appropriate PLSSs activated, record should be safe (safe as anything likely to be under circumstances).

For own protection, have already donned Harris's EMU over mine, helmet included. Lack only outer gloves, work of seconds (hard enough to write through
one
pair). Am ready to close up, grit teeth, at moment's notice.

But perhaps better call halt, for moment anyway, compose self for engine braking. Getting caught unawares, with arm unsupported over body in writing position, could result in broken bones. Or worse.

Probably have few more comments after final burn—not because expect to have anything important to say, but helps keep mind from dwelling on atmospheric braking side effects.

Damned
Khraniteli
double-crossed me! Have to hurry now, Posterity—
was no engine braking prior to reentry . . . !

(Or perhaps my fault? Could attempted retargeting have screwed up software?)

Whatever—was already wondering if braking sequence might be overdue, whether something amiss, when perceived first hint of returning gravity; detected faintest, shrill whining sound transmitted through hull, cushions, helmet— already entering upper atmosphere . . . !

Sure wish could ride out reentry inside inner shell with computer, detonator, other tender components; but adult suit won't fit through hatch, and have no way of securing remote PLSS reliably. Would be in bad way if started bouncing around out here; could wreck internal workings, sever lines.

Damn . . . better hurry—starting to get
warm in
here!

Please, God—
don't let me burn . . . !

VOLUME III—Part III

Finale

This isn't funny anymore—not that it ever was . . . .

Something is going on. Something spooky. Something downright eerie, in fact. Whatever it is, I think it may be coming to a head.

And I'm scared. I can tell Adam is, too.

Terry's "launch soliloquy," with Lisa's related sudden upset, was bad enough. But this morning was
crazy
. And if it continues much longer, I'm positively going to lose my mind!

It started at exactly 5:30 A.M., just moments before we would have been getting up anyway to get an early start and take advantage of every minute of daylight. I was already awake, staring unhappily into the dark; worrying about Candy, wondering about Lisa and Terry, and about this creeping sense of foreboding that weighs increasingly upon all of us.

There was no warning; it's a good thing I've got a sound heart or it would have stopped right then and there.

Simultaneous with Lisa's inarticulate scream came Terry's high, thin shriek: "Kyril—
NO . . . !
"

Adam is not troubled by indecision: He was on his feet with the bedroom light on before the echoes died away, and he had the living room light on even as I sat up and looked around.

Lisa was sitting straight up in bed, trembling; eyes wide, empty, and horrified. Terry was on the floor, looking around with a confused, frightened expression.

Leaving Adam to retrieve him, I went immediately to Lisa and took her in my arms and held her. She gave no sign of knowing I was there. Her every muscle was rigid and trembling. She panted like a winded fawn and her heart raced wildly.

Adam replaced Terry on his stand. The bird was hunched, head down, plumage fluffed—the very picture of abject misery.

Adam stood silently, gazing back and forth between the bird and my trembling daughter.
"Dammitall!"
he exploded, turning away, "I'd give my left arm to find out what's going on! I
hate not knowing!"

I "shushed" him and tried to calm Lisa. I rocked her gently, the way I did when she was little, and stroked her hair.

Finally her eyes cleared; she noticed me. "That was
mean
!" she whimpered.

"What happened, baby?" I murmured, glaring a warning over her shoulder at Adam, who, hearing her response, had already wheeled around, ready to administer the third degree. "Who was mean?" I continued. "Who? What did he do?"

I might as well have saved my breath. Lisa pulled away slightly and met my gaze. She opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated. She pulled at her lower lip with her teeth. Finally she shook her head in perplexity. "I dunno, Mommy." She sniffled. "But he was
mean
!" she added emphatically.

"What did he
do
that was mean?" prodded Adam, despite my warning frown. "If you know he was mean, you must know what he did."

But she didn't. At least she was unable to explain it to either of our satisfactions. Or, I suspect, her own.

And suddenly it was happening again: Terry was growling softly, blood-chillingly; he crouched, bill wide, pinpoint pupils staring into space. Lisa withdrew again, her expression going blank, her entire body tensing, muscles gathering.

"Lisa . . ." I began.

She cut me off:
"Shh-h-h-h!
Quiet, Mommy; he'll hear you. We have to be careful not to warn him . . . ."

"Oh,
Kyril . . . !
" wailed Terry.

"Warn
who?
"
demanded Adam in exasperation.

"Shh-h-h-h!" was the only reply. Beneath my hands she coiled perceptibly, then started abruptly . . .

"Haiee-AHH!"
shrieked Terry, flapping violently, this time without quite losing his grip.

Lisa brightened. "All right!" she gloated. She pulled away from me and shook herself. Her sweet baby face wore a positively savage expression. "All
right
. . . !" she repeated with grim satisfaction.

Terry subsided; so did Lisa—into tears.

". . . have to warn them!" muttered the bird. ". . . but how?
How? HOW . . . ?
"

Adam exhaled a sigh of repressed wrath and stalked off to the kitchen to make breakfast. It was a noisy process: Pans, dishes, and utensils paid the price for his frustration.

And all the while Terry continued to mutter intermittently in a
sotto voce
undertone, only portions of which were intelligible:

". . . never hear me way around here even if I
could
fix it!"

". . . idea was it, anyway, to put short-range sets in EMUs?"

". . . isn't even a
mirror
in here . . . !"

Apart from the running commentary, breakfast was a quiet affair. Adam ate in stony silence. Lisa moped, dripped tears, and sniffled by turns, and only ate because I threatened reprisals against her stuffed Pooh-Bear.

Both were too preoccupied to recognize the development of a genuinely terrifying omen:
Terry didn't want his scrambled eggs . . . !
Not since the dawn of time, according to Candy, has he
ever
rejected scrambled eggs—not even during the terrible three days, two years ago, when he almost died of pneumonia!

That's when I started to get a cold feeling in my stomach.

But it was as we were cleaning up the dishes that the Last Straw landed: "Of
course!"
Terry whispered excitedly.

Adam's eyes met mine: Who ever heard of a bird
whispering?

"I can send it down in the damned
bomb . . .!
All I have to do is retarget the computer. I can do that—I think ... What were those coordinates? Remember-remember-
remember
—I
remember
! 34 degrees 44 minutes north, 120 degrees 35 minutes west. Damn—that's almost twenty miles from the launch site; sure hope somebody's watching.
Please,
please, somebody—be
watching
. . . !"

Adam looked suddenly thoughtful. Seizing a pencil, he scribbled on the countertop.

"I give up," I said; "what're you doing, and why?"

By way of answer he went to the electronics wall and pulled open the map drawer. He rustled through the contents for a few seconds; then pulled out a USGS section map. He labored briefly with dividers and parallel rule. "There . . . !" he grunted under his breath. "I would have bet money on it."

He turned to me. "Look here!" he said, in mounting excitement. "Just look where those coordinates lie."

I glanced at the map; Adam had drawn an X on it. I glanced up. "What coordinates?"

"Didn't you hear Terry? That was longitude and latitude he quoted. And look where they cross—Vandenberg Air Force Base!"

My confusion must have been apparent.

"Don't you get it?" he demanded. "They've never landed a shuttle at Vandenberg Air Force Base; they have their own three-mile strip right there at the launch complex, almost 20 miles away—Terry
couldn't
have heard those figures on television."

"Well, he had to get them from somewhere."

Adam eyed me cautiously. "I think he got them from Candy."

"Well . . ." Whatever reply I might have planned was swept away by Terry's next interruption:

"Oh . . . !"
he exclaimed. "Of
course!
How did anyone so stupid manage to live eleven whole years—
I can ride down, too . . . !
"

Adam stood silent, head down, thinking; his expression was almost a prayer. Then he straightened, eyes hard. He took a deep breath, faced me, and said, "That's
Candy
. Terry is relaying her thoughts—don't ask me how, don't ask me from where. But he is. And she's going to try to get to Vandenberg and it's important and she's afraid. I'm going to be there to meet her. I'm leaving right now. I know it's crazy. Are you with me?"

I, too, hesitated, thinking hard. I reviewed the events of the past several weeks: the innumerable occasions on which Terry clearly anticipated Candy's next statement and beat her to it or said it in chorus with her; his recent incredibly scholarly eloquence, coupled with Lisa's related behavior.

The evidence
in toto
was substantial and convincing. But for our (and Candy's) ostrichlike reluctance to face facts, we would have accepted the obvious conclusion some time ago: Candy and Terry, and Lisa too,
are
in communication—call it ESP or whatever—and we
have
been eavesdropping on Candy's mental processes, wherever she is and whatever she might be doing.

"If we're wrong," I cautioned, "we'll have lost several days' searching up here."

Adam nodded tensely. "I know. But we've covered at least a ten-mile radius so far. If she were here, we'd have found her by now."

I sighed. "I think so, too."

"Right; let's go." Adam was getting into almost as intense a state as the day Candy went down. He swept through the trailer like a whirlwind, gathering various tools, equipment, foodstuffs, and the like. When I asked why, he replied that the trailer would slow us down—he didn't know what the problem might be, but Candy was frightened; he was
not
going to be late.

Adam often talks about his pre-Armageddon ambition to compete professionally in Grand Prix and Nascar, and describes his efforts (uniformly illegal) to acquire the high-speed motoring skills necessary for such a career. The stories tended to begin with "It was the loneliest summer of my life," and I dismissed the bulk of them as exaggeration, wishful thinking, and tall tales spun to entertain us.

However, if there is one thing Adam has not exaggerated, it is his driving skill. For the first few minutes I was terrified; I expected every second to end in a crash. But I knew there was no point in trying to get him to slow down as long as he wore
that
expression. I gritted my teeth and held on—and for once I didn't have to remind Lisa to fasten her seat belt. I held Terry securely in my arms; Tora-chan clung to a seat cushion in the rear, looking annoyed.