The Moonfall

by Jack McDevitt

  Evelyn rode the elevator up to ground level and stepped out into Main Plaza, where the soft gray light reflected the early hour. (The illumination panels kept pace with the twenty-four-hour cycle.)

  She felt empty. Drained. The end of her life had come upon her with desperately little warning, and she was wondering whether she'd ever really lived. What was missing?

  She really didn't know. She'd accomplished all the goals she'd set for herself, had gotten one good husband out of two tries-not bad, on average. Her countrymen were better off because of her efforts. She'd wielded the kind of power most people only dream about. And she'd even contributed substantially to the effort to start the human race on the road to the stars.

  What was missing?

  Why had she felt a kind of cruel satisfaction in going before the vice president of the United States and demonstrating her superiority of character over him? In watching his discomfort? Was she so uncertain of her own virtue?

  She had no quarrel with Charlie Haskell.

  A group of technicians, wearing Moonbase jumpsuits, came up one of the ramps and strolled along a walkway, headed for the administration building. One of them recognized her and smiled.

  Maybe, she thought, when you get without warning to a point from which your life can be counted in hours, and you're not ready to go out of the daylight, it has to be like this. Maybe it doesn't matter who you are or what you've done.

  Evelyn, only in her late thirties, had already experienced more sheer joy and gained more of a sense of accomplishment than anyone has a right to expect. Maybe that was the reason that, when the tears came, she could not quell them. Moonbase, Director's Conference Room. 6:55 A.M.

  As director of Moonbase, Jack Chandler wore a second hat: He was also head of the Department of Management, which included administration, personnel, finance, security, materiel, education, and public relations. There were two other departments: Health and Safety, and Technical Services, each with its own group of divisions.

  He hadn't slept since talking with Caparatti, and he was bleary-eyed, his senses dulled. But the adrenalin was still pumping and he could feel his heart pounding as he looked out over the nineteen faces that represented his co-department heads and their division directors. He'd put out coffee, rolls, and bagels; and he wandered through the group, warning key people by his demeanor that the news was bad. Finally, at seven, he walked to the lectern. The room quieted. His private secretary slipped in, carrying a handful of papers.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "As you probably know, we had a problem last evening. One of the buses suffered a delay and threw us off schedule. It now appears that we will not be able to evacuate everyone prior to impact."

  They'd known it was coming. There'd been no way to keep it quiet. Still, the official confirmation froze the moment. Chandler listened to the low hum of the ventilation system. There was the financial division director, her thin, worn cheeks suddenly bloodless; and the head of Technical Services, staring down at the table; and the public relations chief, nodding as if he'd just outlined an admirable strategy. Each in his or her own way tried to hold the reality at arm's length.

  The expressions of shock metamorphosed into dismay. "We've adjusted the evacuation schedule somewhat," Jack continued, "and each of you will be given a copy as you leave this morning. Senior personnel will stay behind until everyone else has been gotten off. It now looks as if six people are going to have to ride out the impact at Moonbase. We're carrying maximum weight load on every bus, and we're making the best possible flight times. I'm sorry this is happening. I honestly do not know how we could reasonably have foreseen this kind of eventuality and provided for it.

  "If your name is among the last six, please stay a few minutes. The rest of you please confirm your departure time with Transportation. Miss a flight, you get to stay." He felt close to tears. "Thank you." He wanted to say more but he didn't trust his voice.

  His own name, and Evelyn's, were at the bottom of the list. The other four were Angela Hawkworth and Herman Eckerd, the two department heads; Jill Benning, the personnel director; and Chip Mansfield, director of the engineering support division. "I want you to be aware," he told them after the room had cleared, "that we'll do whatever we can. But I don't want to hold out any false hope."

  Benning was a small woman, about forty, trim, dark-haired, intense. "By what right," she asked, "do you decide for us that we should be left behind?"

  "What would you suggest?" asked Chandler evenly. "That you and I clear out and leave a few secretaries to deal with it?"

  "This is not in my contract," she said. "I've a family at home. Others are dependent on me. I can't just let you throw my life away." She looked desperately around for support. The faces of her colleagues were masked. They would, he thought, be delighted to see her win her argument. But they weren't anxious to take her side openly.

  "The corporation," said Chandler, "will see that your family is looked after. Scholarship funds will be established, and other matters will be taken care of, as appropriate. I'm sorry to be so cold-blooded about this, but we have neither options nor time."

  "And what happens if I go down and get on one of the buses?" she demanded, glaring at him.

  "They won't let you on, Jill. If your name isn't on the list, they won't let you on."

  Eckerd cleared his throat. "I'm willing to stay," he said. "I can't say I like the idea very much, but I don't see that we have much choice."

  Benning turned a furious stare in his direction. Then she swung back to Chandler. "You'll hear from my lawyer," she said.

  He looked at her and couldn't be angry. "If we get home, Jill," he said, "I'll be more than happy to debate this in court." When they'd left, he sagged into a chair. He had thought, when he came here, that he would never return groundside. He didn't want to go back, not to the dead weight in his chest and his heart fluttering with every breath.

  So maybe it was unfair. It was harder on them than it was on him, and he was playing a heroic role, volunteering himself, expecting them to follow his example. But he didn't dare tell them how he really felt, didn't dare do anything that would complicate his need to get them to stay voluntarily. Or as voluntarily as he could arrange. Skyport. 8:17 A.M.

  Tory Clark had heard that the Percival Lowell was approaching, bringing the first group of evacuees from Moonbase. She took a break and went up one deck to the Earthlight Grill, picked up some cinnamon buns, and looked out the window. It was there, skimming the planetary haze, long and gray and lovely. It was smaller than the SSTOs, and not as sleek, but somehow it encompassed a greater aura of power within its frame.

  "Headed for the junk pile," said someone behind her.

  THE TODAY SHOW. 8:30 A.M. SEGMENT.

  Excerpt of an interview with Wesley Feinberg by Jay Christopher. Christopher: Why does it have two tails? Isn't that unusual? Feinberg: Not at all, Jay. Comets often have two tails. One's composed of dust, which is more or less blown off the comet head. Unlike the ion tail, it's illuminated only by reflected light. Christopher: An ion tail is not dust, obviously. Feinberg: That's right. It consists of ionized molecules, so it glows on its own. Christopher: Professor Feinberg, you spoke with the president about the comet? Feinberg: That's correct, Jay. Christopher: Can you tell us what you told him? Feinberg: I don't think that would be appropriate. That's probably a question you should ask him. Christopher: All right, then. What can you tell us about the collision? How much real danger is there? Feinberg: Well, we'll undoubtedly see some meteors. If the Moon breaks up, as now appears quite possible, the situation could become serious. There are several scenarios that raise the question whether life on Earth could survive. Christopher: (After a long pause.) Are there others who agree with this assessment, Professor? Other scientists, I mean? Feinberg: Oh, yes. I'd think most would. Christopher: Are we talking about tidal waves? Feinberg: That's certainly a concern. But a major impact anywhere on the planet could cause immense damage, trigger an ice age, or a runaway green
house effect. This is really not a comfortable situation, but we'll just have to wait and see what happens. On the other hand, we're fortunate as regards the position of the Moon and the angle of the strike. Christopher: Can you explain that? Feinberg: Of course. (Graphic appears.) If the worst happens, and the Moon is destroyed, you can see that most of the material will be blown away from the Earth. Christopher: What's going to happen to it? Feinberg: Oh, the bulk of it will remain in orbit. You know, we talk exclusively about safety concerns. And that's certainly understandable. But we shouldn't overlook the fact that this is a priceless opportunity. Christopher: You mean to watch the collision close up. Feinberg: More than that. We tend to forget, because our lives are very short and nothing around us ever seems to change, that the universe is really a very violent place. It's not necessarily a bad thing that we be reminded of that periodically. Christopher: Provided we survive it. Feinberg: Of course.

  BBC WORLDNET. 9:05 A.M.

  Report from Skyport:

  "… evacuation was completed at the L1 space station this morning. In a daring rescue, the SSTO Arlington brought off two hundred and eleven persons and returned them safely to Skyport moments ago. The same spacecraft will leave shortly to join three other planes orbiting the Moon in the continuing effort to bring out Moonbase personnel." Moonbase, Grissom Country. 10:05 A.M.

  Charlie listened on his private channel to an enraged Henry Kolladner. It was bad enough that Feinberg was trying to panic the nation. But someone in the administration was telling the media that Henry knew how dangerous the situation was, that he was recklessly playing with the lives of Americans. He'd find the leaker, the president swore, he'd run the bastard out of the administration and see that he never worked in this town again (by which he presumably meant the United States government). Not ever. He would even consider criminal action. Furthermore, he thought he knew who was doing it.

  He went on in that vein for a while, but didn't name anyone. Charlie had a couple of suspects in mind, but he understood the turmoil that must have been generated in a meeting in which they decided to stand aside and risk a general disaster without issuing a warning. He understood why the decision had been taken, and was not inclined to be judgmental because he wasn't sure what the correct action should have been. We'll know Sunday morning, won't we?

  "Charlie, they won't just hold this against me. I'm sorry to say it, but they'll remember the party in the fall. You'll probably end up paying the bill."

  Considering the president's unspoken opposition to his candidacy, the remark was disingenuous. But the thought had occurred to Charlie too, although he suspected charges of a coverup wouldn't matter much. His connection with Moonbase would probably be enough to sink him. Still, he knew he needed to put a cheerful face on the situation. "Maybe not, Henry. If the rocks don't land on New York, everybody will say you did exactly the right thing. If they do…" He stared at the scrambler he'd plugged into the wall unit. "If they do, there probably won't be an election."

  "We're doing what we can, Charlie. Moving supplies, equipment, getting troops in place. In case…"

  "What about the rest of the world?"

  "Everybody's scrambling. There's even some cooperation out there, believe it or not. North Korea, for God's sake, has offered to pitch in. But the mechanisms aren't in place. The major alliances may be able to coordinate mutual assistance efforts; elsewhere it'll be hit or miss."

  "Well," said Charlie, "if we get lucky, get a near miss, something that just scares the bejesus out of everybody, maybe some good will come of it."

  "I hope so." The president was briefly silent. "How are you holding out?"

  Charlie hesitated. "Not so well, actually."

  Henry went cold on the other end. "Spell it out, Charlie."

  The vice president told him everything he knew. "They haven't announced it yet."

  "You've got yourself into a box."

  "I know."

  Charlie listened to static on the line. "Okay," said Henry. "We'll have an emergency in, uh, the Everglades. Needs the administration's point man for environment. You get the hell away from there. I'll send written confirmation and give the directive to the media so everybody knows you're being ordered out."

  "Nobody'll believe the Everglades story."

  "Then we'll think of something else. When you get the directive, you might protest publicly. Demand to stay on at Moonbase. That'd be a nice touch."

  2.

  Seattle. 7:27 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time (10:27 A.M. EDT).

  Matt Randall had no intention of getting caught when the tidal waves roared ashore. He lived on Vachon Island in Puget Sound. He habitually got up at six and ran for an hour before catching the ferry over to the mainland for his job with the Coastal Marine Insurance Company, where he managed the general casualty division. This was the unit that insured the uninsurable: teen drivers with bad records who'd been assigned to CMI under the Special Risk Plan. He felt as if he'd acquired another special risk, a very bad one, after watching the early news reports. The gray-haired man from Harvard was calm and almost dispassionate, and consequently very believable.

  Matt made up his mind, skipped the run, and hustled his wife out of bed. She watched the interviews for a few minutes and agreed. They collected the kids, twin girls three years old, loaded up the station wagon, and managed to squeeze onto the ferry. Despite the early hour, there was already a small horde of their neighbors packing and clearing out. Once on the mainland, he threaded his way through downtown Seattle onto I-90, and headed east. At eight-thirty he called the office and got a strange voice. His secretary had called in sick.

  Traffic was uncharacteristically heavy. It crawled along, mostly eastbound like them. The day was overcast and gloomy, laced with occasional showers. The fifty-mile drive out to Lake Easton State Park took almost three hours. There, just after they'd passed a rest area, the twins announced they needed a bathroom. Matt pulled off at the next exit and swung into a McDonald's. He bought a round of burgers and fries. It was midmorning, but the place was filled anyhow.

  Getting back onto the expressway required a difficult left-hand turn across two lanes of southbound traffic, followed by a quick swing into the right-hand lane. He sat several minutes, watching for a break in the flow, saw one, and cut across the highway. He tucked into the left-hand lane and never saw the Voyager van that simultaneously pulled out to pass, expecting to make a left turn just ahead into a charge station. It hit him in the right rear panel and nudged him into the oncoming traffic. The girls screamed and his wife threw her hands against the dashboard. There was only a flicker of stark terror, and then the sky crumpled into darkness.

  Four vehicles, carrying eleven people, were involved in the pileup. Of these, only the driver of the van escaped injury. Matt lost his wife and one of the twins.

  For the Washington State Police, it was the beginning of a day filled with carnage. Skyport Flight Terminal. 11:03 A.M.

  George's dozen flight attendants came by to wish him luck. They stood uncertainly in the passenger lounge, two or three in uniform, most not. Several offered to come if he wanted them along. He thanked them and said he'd see them Sunday when he got back.

  Then he boarded the plane and ran through the preflights with Mary. He and his copilot would be carrying only about a hundred passengers, the last group of evacuees, on the return flight. He was happy that the load would be relatively light, because the spacecraft would be easier to maneuver. If, in fact, the giant spacecraft would be able to maneuver at all.

  "Green board," said Mary.

  George nodded. He began to ease out of the bay.

  He felt good. For years he'd done nothing but fly back and forth from New York to London, and Kansas City to Miami, and then he'd made the big jump from Washington to LEO. Yesterday he'd flown out to the Lagrange One point. Now he was going the rest of the way to the Moon, and he was on a rescue mission. "Okay, Mary," he said, "let's do it." Moonbase, Grissom Country. 11:04 A.M.

  "We need t
o think about what kind of spin we'll put on it."

  Rick nodded. "This whole thing's a nightmare. Next time we'll know not to make pledges off the top of our head, won't we?"

  Charlie squelched his irritation. The man, after all, was right.

  Rick was sitting disconsolately, his hands thrust into his pockets, his jaw propped on one fist. "Who's getting left?" he asked abruptly.

  "Evelyn. Jack Chandler. Other than that, I don't know. Some of their senior people, I think."

  "Hampton's staying behind?"

  "That's what she says."

  "Gutsy woman. She's not in the chain of command out here. Doesn't have to do that." Rick looked as if he were about to say something more and thought better of it. Instead he took out a notebook and flipped it open. "We're scheduled out at one-twenty. Our plane leaves orbit around midnight tonight."

  "Okay."

  Rick shook his head. He'd tried to get them on the flight that was leaving orbit at one, but the White House orders hadn't come through yet and it was already too late to get to it. "We'll get through this, Charlie," he said.

  The vice president stared at him a long time. "Some of us will," he said. Moonbase, Chaplain's Office. 11:27 A.M.

  Mark Pinnacle was the product of a well-to-do, old-line Northumberland family. His recent ancestors, most of whom he knew by name and likeness, had been scholars, soldiers, and statesmen for the British Empire. When things went downhill for the landed aristocracy, the Pinnacles moved into trade and eventually into software development. George Pinnacle, Mark's grandfather, had secured fame and fortune with a wide range of games and practical applications for the home.

  Mark was only the second Pinnacle in modern times to don the cloth. That he did so was less a tribute to his faith than it was irritation with his father Avery, who attended church each Sunday and liberally supported it with donations, while explaining to his children that there wasn't a word of truth anywhere in Christian dogma. The sole value of the Church, he contended, was to entertain the rabble and make them keep their socks up.