Moonfall (28 page)

He went into a brief pout. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d
want
to do it.”

“Look, don’t try to pile a lot of guilt on me. I’ll go.”
And that quickly, with almost no thought, the decision was made
. “But next time, I want to be asked. Up front.”

“Okay,” he said. “I apologize. But I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty.”

“Forget it.” Dammit. Never take an assignment with a hero.

Moonbase Spaceport. 8:21
P.M.

The last three flights had gone out within fifty minutes of one another. Bigfoot stayed on the radio, talking to the pilots until they’d ridden their beacons into orbit. Then he handed them over to
Arlington
, pushed back in his chair, and looked
around the operations center. In all that vast complex of workstations, boarding areas, launchpads, supply rooms, and communications gear, he was alone. Most of the lights were already off. The overhead doors to Bay Four were still open. Somewhere a steam fitting hissed.

Bigfoot had grown up in a blue collar family that had never been able to get into the black until he’d signed with the Packers. He understood what it meant to live from payday to payday, and he’d consequently learned not to waste things.
Put as much on your plate as you want, but don’t take anything you’re not going to eat
. When his injury in that first game had ended his career, he’d gone to work for the FAA, done a stint as an airline safety inspector, another as a controller, and demonstrated a capability to lead. People instinctively trusted him.

He felt he’d always deserved their trust. Until the incident with the microbus.

Considering the design of the valves, it had been an accident waiting to happen. It was just terrible luck that it occurred when it did. But it had been
his
responsibility.

The dinner would be over by now, but he supposed they were still up there, commiserating with each other on their mutual misfortune, trying not to think too much about what was coming. The fact that the vice president was supposed to attend, and that ordinarily Bigfoot would kill to eat with the number-two guy in the country, didn’t change the fact that all these people expected to die. That was a social event he just didn’t want to attend. Still, they’d invited him.

He closed the overhead doors to Bay Four and repressurized. That was where he’d receive the Micro when it came. But that was more than an hour and a half away, and the pumps would freeze if he didn’t seal up. He tried to think what else needed to be done. But there wasn’t much to do in advance that he hadn’t already taken care of. There’d be no checkoff
procedure this time. It’d be just refuel, board the passengers, and get the hell out.

Several of the monitors carried a computer simulation of the comet. He walked through the center, shutting them down, or if they were units he’d need later, switching to a different display. He decided the Spaceport was too quiet.

He tied in his phone to the radio so the pilots could reach him if necessary. Then he summoned the tram and rode it over to the Main Plaza, and took the elevator up to the administrative offices.

Skyport Orbital Lab. 8:44
P.M.

“I’m
not
going,” said Tory. “And that’s all there is to it.”

Windy pressed his fingers against his forehead and made noises like a man with a migraine. “You are directed to leave,” he said. “It’s not my call, so it’s not debatable. Your flight goes out at—” he glanced down at the piece of paper on his desk. “At nine-twelve. Be on it.”

Tory folded her arms. “Windy, the biggest astronomical event in human history, by a wide margin, is about to occur and you are ordering me away from my post.”

“Let me try again, Tory. It is
not
my order.”

“
Whoever’s
. But I’m not going to be sitting in a cloud bank at ten thirty-five wondering what’s happening. You understand? I’m
not
going to do it.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“When did that happen?”

“Look, Tory, why do you think they’re evacuating this place? It’s not going to be safe here for the next few days. For God’s sake, catch your plane and watch everything on the in-flight. What’s the big deal?”

“Windy, please. I want to be here tonight. You owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you anything, Tory.”

“Yeah you do. I’ve worked hard up here for two years and never asked for anything. Tonight I’m asking—”

“You’re not listening to me. If the decision were mine to make, there’d be no problem. But it isn’t.”

They’d been evacuating Skyport all day. But it wasn’t going to be a complete stand-down like L1. So-called essential operating personnel were remaining on board to keep the station running and to service the remaining SSTOs that would be coming in from Moonbase.

“How about telling them you need help?”

“Tory, the discussion’s over.”

“You
do
, you know. This place is going to be the center of the action for the next couple of days. Can’t anyone
see
that?” The Orbital Lab controlled six satellite telescopes, as well as the automated observatory on Farside. The observatory was going to get bombed. But the others would become the early warning system for large pieces of debris headed, say, for Atlanta. “Things could get sticky here if the rocks come this way. And you’ll be sitting here alone.”

Winfield Cross was career Smithsonian, nominally a superstring specialist, but really more bureaucrat than astronomer. He’d stuck by the right boss at the right time and he’d been rewarded with a top job. He was okay, inclined to stay out of the way and give the technicians their head. All he really asked was that they keep him out of trouble. But he wasn’t the man to butt heads for you. “I agree with everything you’re saying, Tory. But it doesn’t really matter. They want you out.” He turned away from her.

“Off the record—” she said.

“There’s no ‘
off the record
.’”

“Off the record, what would happen if I didn’t show up at flight time?”

“It’d serve you right to get your silly ass hung out to dry. But I’ll tell you this: I’m responsible for the safety of my peo
ple. You
will
be at the gate at departure time, or you’ll face disciplinary action.”

“Windy, aren’t you overreacting a little?”

“I don’t think so. You’re not the first person in here today talking like this. I’m logging the incident, and I’m warning you: Don’t give me trouble.”

Tory loved her job and had no wish to put a dagger into her career. Furthermore, she was by nature compliant. All her life she’d respected authority (within reason, of course), tried to stay out of trouble, and been a good soldier. So she considered her response very carefully. “No,” she said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I’m not going home. At least not tonight.”

Windy removed his glasses and laid them on his desk. “I can have you
put
on board.”

“Why don’t you leave it alone? If you want my job afterward, you can have it. I’ll tell anyone who asks that this conversation never happened, that you had no way of knowing I’d stay behind. Windy, there’s never been anything like this in the whole history of the species. I am
not
going to sit in the forward compartment of an SSTO tonight watching in-flight telecasts.”

FRANK CRANDALL’S ALL-NIGHTER
. 8:49
P.M.

5.

Moonbase, Director’s Private Dining Room. 8:53
P.M.

At first Bigfoot thought they’d all been drinking a little too much. He could hear them from the elevator, singing and laughing. The song was “Stout-Hearted Men,” and somebody was playing a guitar. He walked in and they cheered his arrival. The musician was Jack Chandler. He was wearing a party hat.

They were
all
wearing party hats. Charlie Haskell waved him in and pointed him to a chair. A couple of empty wine bottles stood on the table, and one had missed a trash can, but there was no sign of anything stronger. “How are things at the ol’ launchpad?” asked Hampton. And they all laughed like banshees.

“It’s okay, Bigfoot,” said the chaplain, apparently noting his worried expression. “We can make it over there okay.”

More laughs. Then, as if a switch had been thrown,
Chandler acquired a serious expression and put the guitar aside. “How are we doing?” he asked.

“Everything’s as ready as I can make it. Tony’s running on schedule.”

The only one of the group Bigfoot knew personally was Chandler. The others introduced themselves, and Bigfoot got to shake the vice president’s hand. Evelyn thanked him for staying behind to help.

Morley invited him to do an interview and they all laughed again. This time Bigfoot joined them.

SSTO Arlington Flight Dock. 9:05
P.M.

George Culver watched the microbus come in along his port side. The pilot laid it smoothly in position and began sending over his passengers. Two other buses were following close behind, and he had both in his instruments. He would load the passengers from all three as quickly as he could, make his window, and get out of the neighborhood.

That
was the vehicle that was going to turn around, go back, and try to rescue the vice president. George admired the pilot. He looked out at the comet and tried to cover it with his hand at arm’s length, but could not. He was happy
he
wasn’t going to be here.

The Micro informed him that transfer had been completed. He watched the lamps signaling that the passenger cabin airlock was closing down. When it was sealed, Mary came forward. The Micro’s thrusters lit and it arced away into the night.

“Heads up,” he said. “Next one’s coming in.”

One of the passengers who’d volunteered to help now appeared at the door behind him. “Problem, Captain,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think they’re getting a little nervous in back. Could you come back and talk to them?”

George couldn’t leave the flight deck with a bus approaching. “Mary?” he said.

She nodded. But another voice broke in, deep and angry. Its owner appeared immediately behind the volunteer: “I don’t think we need any talk. What we need is to get this goddam plane on the road.” The speaker was a beefy man, thin hair, angry eyes. Lot of loose flesh.
Enough mass for two people
, George thought. He was barely thirty.

The flight engineer jumped to his feet. “Sir,” said Curt, “you’re not permitted in here.”

“You people are going to get us all killed. You see how close that son of a bitch is?” He looked at the comet.

George got up. “We’ll be out of here in plenty of time—”

“We damned well need to get out of here
now
. Everything’s taking too long.”

“I assure you, Mr.—?”

“Donnelly,” the man foamed. “I was only here doing survey work. Nobody said anything about something like this.”

“It’s a surprise to us all, Mr. Donnelly.”

“Why wasn’t I put on one of the other planes?”

“We’re already on course for home,” said George. “Our window’s up ahead. We’ll be picking up more passengers on our way out. But we need everyone to sit down and stay out of the way.” Curt took Donnelly’s arm and tried to lead him back to the passenger cabin. But he shook free and began a string of invective.

George turned the controls over to Mary and got up. “Go back to your seat,” he said calmly. “You’re interfering with flight operations and endangering everybody.”

“Screw you,” said Donnelly.

It was enough for George, who delivered a short hard right to Donnelly’s stomach. The man folded up and went backward. “Get him out of here,” he told the volunteer flight attendant.

“Captain,” she said, “he isn’t the only one who feels that way.”

Donnelly tried to get up and hit back, but he measured George’s size—and maybe his anger—and thought better of it. He grumbled about bringing legal action and limped out.

George followed him back to the passenger cabin.

The SSTO had a capacity for two hundred and thirty-five passengers. They had seventy-four on board now, with thirty-seven to come. They were well distributed, and George picked a spot from which most of them could see him. He picked up a mike. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I know this is unnerving for some of you. But we’re on our way back home now. One bus is pulling alongside us as we speak; another’s running right behind it. We’ll pick up those people and that’ll be the end of it. Meantime, I repeat, we’re headed home at this very minute, and we can’t do any better than this even if there were no more buses, because we have a window to hit. Please stay calm.