"Good luck, Evelyn. You'll make it. And thanks for everything."
He disconnected. When the cell phone chimed again he took out the batteries and laid it on a table. Then he pulled the jack on the table phone.
He walked over and looked at his certificate from the Wilmington bridge tournament. That had been a good weekend. One of his best.
He poured a second glass of Scotch. Moonbase Spaceport. 10:02 P.M.
"I'm going after him."
Charlie had overheard Evelyn's side of the conversation. "There isn't time," he said. "You don't even know where he is."
"He's in his quarters. Where else would he be?"
"He's in his quarters now. It doesn't matter. He's made his choice, Evelyn. You have to respect it." He drew her to him and held her. Her cheeks were wet and she was trembling.
"I should have known," she said.
"How could you have possibly known?"
She started to answer, but broke it off and simply held him. And Charlie remembered the silent message he'd seen passed to her from Chandler.
"I love you."
"Damn him," she said quietly.
7.
Manhattan. 10:03 P.M.
Louise Singfield lived in a rooftop apartment in a four-story brownstone on 77th Street just off Central Park. It was perfect for a moonwatch party.
Marilyn and Larry arrived by taxi, identified themselves through the intercom, and were admitted. They rode a creaky elevator to the fourth floor and climbed a staircase the rest of the way. Louise's door opened off a narrow landing.
There was laughter inside and familiar voices. Marilyn immediately recognized Doug Cabel, Larry's boss. She didn't like Cabel, not because of anything he'd ever done, or even was, but because of the way her husband turned into a toady in his presence. Larry was a good man: He treated her well, made a decent living, didn't cheat, didn't demonstrate any major vices. Yet he seemed to be admirable for what he didn't do rather than for what he did. She'd been married three years and had come to realize that she was making do. The great romance she'd dreamed of in college, like the ones she read about every day in her job, had not happened. And now, she knew, would not happen.
Well, it could have been worse.
Louise's door opened and there stood the hostess herself. She wore a white blouse with navy collar and sleeves and navy slacks. The blouse was cut to reveal some breast. A bit much, Marilyn thought, for a casual office BYOB affair.
"Good to see you, Marilyn," Louise said, delivering a peck on the cheek. She accepted a kiss from Larry and introduced her boyfriend du jour. Mike Somebody-or-other.
Marilyn knew most of the people there. Larry's department did a lot of socializing. Doug believed it was good for morale and he encouraged it.
They contributed their bottle of Jamaica rum to the cache, made a couple of daiquiris, and went out onto the terrace. Larry paid his customary obeisance to Doug. Doug commented on this being quite a night, and then asked how the Kiplinger's report on BRK Merchandising should be handled. Or something of that nature.
The comet had grown appreciably from night to night. Now it commanded the sky east of the Moon. Nearby stars had faded, and when Marilyn walked to the far edge of the terrace, near the roof and away from the lights, she thought the illumination from the comet strong enough that she could have read by it.
Marv Taylor joined her. "Spooky, isn't it?" he said.
Marv, like Larry, was an account executive. He was quiet, introspective, gentle. His eyes were light blue, like the sky during late morning, and they seemed always amused and sad at the same time, as if he knew the truth about her. (What was the truth about her?) He was not married. There'd been a fiancee when she'd first met him. But the woman was gone and Marilyn, for reasons she did not entirely understand, had been relieved at her departure.
"Yes," she admitted. "I've never seen a sky like that."
He was not drinking. "This'll be a night to tell your grandkids about."
Marilyn tasted her daiquiri. It was strawberry. "Larry thinks it'll fizzle. He says astronomical stuff, comets specifically, always fizzle."
He smiled. "He's probably right," he said.
She looked into his eyes. Marv Taylor, I'd like very much to bed you. But she wouldn't. If she were sure she could get away with it, she'd think seriously about giving it a try. She felt entitled to one real passion during her life. But she'd get caught. Larry would know.
On the other hand, if this really turned out to be the end of the world, as some people were saying, what difference would it make? White House, Oval Office. 10:04 P.M.
The Moon wasn't visible from his windows. Henry had set up a hot line for the state governors, had resisted nationalizing the Guard (which would only serve to encourage those elements in the nation that were given to panic), had talked with the heads of state of two dozen nations, had authorized full U.S. commitment to a UN Response Team, and had gone on national television with a fireside chat, FDR-style.
He was especially good in that format. Al Kerr had told him once that he oozed sincerity. He understood that people were upset, he'd explained. They were experiencing something quite disturbing. But Americans were not among those who would give way to hand-wringing and fear-mongering. (In fact, the media, he thought, had done quite a good job at keeping a lid on things.)
Should any effects of the distant collision (he emphasized distant) be felt in the U.S.A., he assured the nation that the government was ready to act with all the power at its disposal. The military had been deployed to lend assistance in the unlikely event it might be needed. Federal agencies were standing by. And he himself would spend the evening in the White House. He was planning to watch a good movie, and expected not to be disturbed.
He added, almost as an afterthought, that Vice President Haskell was still at Moonbase. He was proud of the vice president, and the five brave Americans who had remained with him. (He'd gotten carried away here. Morley was a New Zealander; Hampton was from Senegal; the chaplain was British; and, of course, one of the two pilots of the Micro, had they been mentioned, was Russian. But let it go. The nation needed pumping up.) A rescue effort was under way even as he spoke, and he was optimistic that everyone would be brought away safely.
Al shook his hand when he was done. It had been a masterful performance. The president had spoken from his living quarters on the second floor of the West Wing. The book-lined walls, the sputtering fire (a virtual effect, actually, because the evening was unseasonably warm), the family portraits, had all lent a sense of security and tranquillity to the proceedings.
There was, of course, no movie planned for the evening.
After the broadcast, Henry had returned to the Oval Office, taken a call from UN Secretary General Elie Kopacca on an unrelated matter, and then headed down to the situation room. In the holotank, a virtual comet closed in on Mare Muscoviense. Displays portrayed the comet from a dozen different points of view. On the far side of a glass partition, a dozen operators manned computers and phones. There were uniforms everywhere. He saw Mercedes Juarez deep in conversation with the liaison from the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
The situation room was essentially a military operation, usually a relatively blase place run for the convenience of the commander-in-chief. When a crisis was in full swing, however, it could become the nation's nerve center. The officer responsible for it was Rear Admiral Jay Graboski.
Graboski was something of a crank. He didn't much like civilians, junior officers, reporters, or White House employees. He was convinced the nation was in a steep moral decline and that only military discipline, practiced across the land by all citizens and enforced by a tough national police force, would be sufficient to turn things around. He tolerated Henry Kolladner because he had to, but he was not reluctant to offer advice, usually in the guise of "cracking down" on some practice or other. For all that, Graboski was useful. He knew the equipment, its capabilities and its limitations. He never lost his head. He was b
rutally honest. And he had no private agenda that transcended his loyalty to the United States.
When Henry entered the area, Graboski was clustered with a couple of his lieutenants. He saw the president and came over. "Nothing's changed, sir," he said.
The clocks were counting down the last hour.
"Is the rescue effort on schedule?"
"Yes, Mr. President. The microbus made its SSTO rendezvous on the dime. They're in the descent stage now, approaching Moonbase." He went on to describe efforts on the West Coast to stock food and equipment in elevated areas.
Henry didn't care much about details. He was thinking instead about the last nine months of his term, what he hoped to accomplish, a few old scores he wanted to settle, the kind of mark he hoped to leave on history. And he was trying to calculate how tonight's events would influence all that. Whether, for example, the death of a heroic vice president would reflect well on him. Or put him into sharp contrast. After all, it might be said, the opening of Moonbase was a monumental event. The president should have been there. And how would he have behaved?
How indeed?
TRANSGLOBAL NEWS REPORT. 10:05 P.M.
"This is Keith Morley reporting live from Moonbase. I'm talking by remote with Tony Casaway, the pilot of the microbus that will make an attempt to pull us out of here in, uh, about twenty minutes. And with him is his copilot, Alisa Rolnikaya. Tony, where are you now?"
"Hello, Keith. We're close enough to see the lights. We'll be there in a few minutes."
"Good. I don't need to tell you that we're waiting anxiously. I wonder if you'd care to give us your assessment of the situation? How do things look from your perspective?"
"You want the truth?"
"Sure."
"I don't want to upset you, Keith, but they look scary. The comet is virtually on top of us. I'm showing you now the view from the cockpit."
"I see it. It looks lower in the sky than it did earlier."
"Just before it comes down, it'll drop behind the horizon. Or at least it would if you were sitting on top of the ringwall mountains. I don't mind telling you, I'll be happy to pick you folks up and be gone."
"I don't mind telling you, we share your feeling, Tony." (Chuckles.) "How about you, Saber? I should mention that Alisa is Russian, and she goes by her old NATO code name, Saber. You both volunteered to do this. Having any second thoughts?"
"I probably shouldn't admit this in front of the whole world, Keith, but I'm scared to death."
"Well, Saber, I want you to know we appreciate your coming after us."
"Keith?"
"Yes, Tony."
"How do you feel?"
"Same as Saber. We'll be standing by the launchpad with our lunches packed." On board Diligent, USCGC 344, in the East River. 10:06 P.M.
Commander Peter Bolling listened to the rumble of his twin V16 diesel engines and watched the piers and wharves slip by. They were uniformly empty.
"It's eerie," said Dan Packard, his XO. The waterfront was lit up, like always. Here and there a solitary figure patrolled the docks, flashlight and clipboard in hand. Beyond, the towers of Manhattan rose under clear skies, unchanged and unchangeable, mocking Diligent and her orders. It was eerie. Even Bolling, who'd been working the harbor for twelve years, had never seen it so completely deserted.
The Diligent was an ancient 210-foot cutter, known affectionately to her crew as Dilly. She was based at Governor's Island, had spent the earlier part of the evening directing outbound traffic into Long Island Sound. Now, in company with her sister vessel Reliant, she was moving south on the East River, one final patrol before clearing out through the Narrows into the Atlantic, where they would wait until higher authority was sure events in the sky would not create hazardous conditions in the cramped New York and New Jersey waterways.
Ships had been putting out to sea now for three days, taking no chances on getting caught near shore if high water developed.
Bolling was a graduate of Stanford, where he'd majored in history. He'd grown up around boats and joined the Coast Guard more or less as a lark, expecting to enjoy himself for a few years before settling down with a real job. He'd earned a commission at the academy and married a marine pilot. He'd liked the life, enjoyed the freedom, and now wondered that he could ever have thought seriously of working in an office.
His marriage hadn't lasted: too many irregular hours on both sides, no kids to bind the partners, and maybe too much money. They'd stayed in touch and managed to remain friends. Tonight, he knew she'd squired an automobile carrier out past the eastern markers and elected to stay with the ship. It was running coastwise, with stops in Philadelphia, Charleston, and Brunswick. But it would lie well offshore with the rest of the merchant fleet until the situation sorted itself out.
"I sent my family out of town," said Packard. "Soon as I heard."
Bolling knew several people who'd tried to do that but had been unable to book transport. And more than a few who'd started out by car, given up, and come home. "I don't think there's anything to it, Dan," he said. "But it never hurts to be safe."
He was glad his ex was out, too.
Funny how night skies give credence to fear. When he'd reported for duty this afternoon and they'd begun to lay out the operational plan, it had all seemed ridiculous. The sun had been bright, the weather warm, and everyone was laughing over a long jaunt out into the Atlantic. But it felt deadly serious now as Dilly and Reliant moved past empty piers.
One vessel, the Kira Maru, was inbound. Diligent overtook her as she approached Throgs Neck Bridge. The Merchant Marine Academy was off to port, just beyond Kings Point Road. Automobile traffic seemed normal. Maybe even a little heavy for a Saturday night.
Dilly was loaded with medical supplies just in case. And it carried a couple of tanks of fresh water. Someone in the chain of command was taking the comet seriously.
The skies were about as clear as they get over New York. Comet and Moon had risen almost simultaneously during the late afternoon. They were overhead now, entwined in the bridge, almost visibly drawing together while he watched. He drew his jacket around his shoulders. On the river at this time of year, nights were always cold.
His orders were crumpled in his jacket pocket.
PRESERVE THE BOAT IN THE EVENT OF HEAVY WEATHER.
That was strange phrasing, he thought, considering what they feared.
RENDER ASSISTANCE AS NECESSARY.
MAINTAIN RADIO CONTACT AT ALL TIMES
AFTER 2200 HOURS.
REPORT PROMPTLY ANY UNUSUAL
HYDROLOGIC PHENOMENA.
Now the dark sky gave way to the Whitestone Bridge.
"Look," said Packard, pointing ahead toward a small flotilla of yachts, a few points to starboard. There were maybe twenty boats in all. Bolling could hear music drifting across the water. And laughter. But they were keeping together, and they waved as the cutter passed. Some of the coasties waved back.
The lead boat was a twin-engine white and maroon Mainship motor yacht with Yankee Liz painted on her bow. "Ramsey," said Bolling to his radio operator, "Bring Liz up."
Ramsey was not much more than a kid, just out of school. He spoke into his microphone, listened, nodded, looked at his skipper. Bolling gestured for the mike.
"Yankee Liz," he said, "this is the Coast Guard. Where are you bound?"
He could see the boat's captain on its bridge, hunched over the radio. He was a short, dumpy man, but it was too dark to make out other details. "Getting clear of the Sound tonight," he said.
"Where are you headed?" asked Bolling again.
"Peekskill."
"All of you? Are you traveling together?"
"Some are going to Croton-on-Hudson."
"Nobody going to sea?"
"No, sir."
"Very good, Captain. Thank you."
Off to port, LaGuardia Airport was quiet. Bolling had seen it like that before, idled by a heavy storm or by a strike. The tower looked active, and he could see vehicles mov
ing on the approach roads. But there were no lights in the sky.
They passed Rikers Island and Hell Gate.
Reliant was out of sight now.
The city crouched on the river, insensate, timeless, invulnerable. Headlights moved along both banks, climbed the approaches, and crossed on the Triborough.
They continued down to the foot of Manhattan, making perhaps better time than Bolling would ordinarily have allowed, but he felt crowded by the narrow channels of the East River. Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty came into view. The harbor looked serene, traffic flowing in an endless stream around its perimeter. A ferry nosed past them.
He checked his schedule. The ferries were going to discontinue service at 2230 hours. "I'm surprised they didn't decide to close the bridges until it's over," he said.
"I think that'd be a nightmare, Captain," said Packard. "I don't think you do that unless you really believe something's coming."
They'd been talking about it all day. Neither would admit to anything except skepticism. Another typical government hassle. But Bolling was nevertheless happy to get through the Narrows and out into the Atlantic.
8.
Micro. 10:07 P.M.
The landing lights at Alphonsus were bright and crisp, cheerful against the bleak landscape as Tony and Saber rode the beacon down. The Sun was below the eastern highlands, probably just a few hours from dawn. The crater looked different, unfamiliar, in the strange light.
As soon as the interview with Keith Morley had ended, Saber had gone down to the cargo deck to get into her p-suit. Tony was glad it was over. The prospect of speaking to millions of people had scared him more than the comet. Below, lights switched on and the roof doors began to roll back.
"Micro." Bigfoot's voice on the radio. "Tony, how are we doing?"
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