The Moonfall

by Jack McDevitt

  Saber ran her hands over the Spandex and approved. "We need some more parts," she said. She went into the galley and rummaged around in the cabinets and refrigerator. She came back with a straw and a plastic storage bag.

  Charlie watched curiously as she emptied the bag of several pounds of wrapped lunch meat, held it over his head, and pulled it down. "A little snug," she said, "but it should work."

  Evelyn's eyes lit up. "Saber," she said, seizing the duct tape, "you're a genius."

  "What?" asked Charlie.

  They removed the bag and strapped the air tank to his back.

  "Okay." Saber nodded at her handiwork. "Look out for the sunlight. You won't have adequate protection against it, and you'll get a bad burn real quick if you get exposed. I'll try to keep the bus turned away from it. But keep it in mind.

  "You're going to be wrapped up with a bag over your head. That means you're going to feel constricted. Keep calm. Breathing will probably feel strange. Not inhaling. That'll be easy. But I think you'll have to work at it to exhale.

  "The g-suit won't cool you off because it's supposed to plug into the p-suit. So you'll get warm. That's another reason we want to keep you out of the sun. You're going to feel as if you're in a sauna."

  "Go ahead," Charlie said. "I'm taking notes."

  "I'm sorry. I wish it were easier. Somebody make a bandanna and wrap it around his head." She went on to explain, step by step, what he needed to do.

  "One more thing," she said. "We don't have an extra tether. Before you do anything else, haul Tony in, disconnect his tether, and tie it to your belt. Tight. If we have to move the bus, I'll blink the outside lights twice, count to five, and go. You make sure you've got a good hold, okay? The tether won't save you from getting beaten up, or even popping the bag. And for God's sake, make sure you stay connected to the bus so we don't lose you."

  They put the bag back on. Evelyn was about to tape it down when Saber held up a finger. "Not yet," she said.

  "Why not?"

  "He's got to exhale. There's no way for the air to escape. He'll fog up." She produced a straw.

  "But," said Evelyn, "the air'll drain through that."

  "Right. So we need a stopcock. Anybody got a paper clip?"

  "Here," said the chaplain.

  She took it, clipped it over one end of the straw, examined it, and then secured it with tape. Now she taped the straw, clipped side down, to Charlie's g-suit top so that the upper end would be inside the plastic bag. "If you have to, Charlie," she said, "open the clip when you exhale." She bit her lip. "It'll help to bleed a little of the air out through the straw, but do that very slowly. If the pressure drops too fast, you'll get a nosebleed."

  Her eyes grew dark. "I think you're set now. And I'm sorry. I don't like doing this to you."

  He nodded and smiled.

  Evelyn wrapped a utility belt around his middle, handed him his tools, and strapped his lamp on his wrist.

  They wished him luck.

  And Charlie, his mouth dry and his stomach churning, went into the airlock and pulled the door shut. The activating presspad was white. He pushed it, saw the status displays change color, and simply sagged, already feeling clammy. His breathing was loud inside the bag and he checked the straw to be sure the clip was still in place.

  The cycling procedure seemed slow. Charlie sat listening to his heartbeat. Saber had been right: Breathing quickly became a conscious effort.

  A green light blinked on and the outer hatch swung open. He looked out into the void, expecting, despite what Saber had said, to be hit by a frigid wave. But he observed no immediate change in temperature. His nervousness ebbed and he looked out at the universe with a surprising degree of calm. No one gets to be vice president without developing a strong sense of self-confidence along the way, and a capability for responding under extreme pressure. These qualities, of which Charlie had not been particularly conscious, were nevertheless present, and they now came to his rescue.

  He looked around and saw Tony's body, still quietly adrift.

  Hauling him in would take time. And Charlie knew better than anyone, feeling the air in his lungs expand, that time was not on his side. Better to take his chances without the safety line and get on with it. Get Tony later. There was no safety to be had under present conditions, and it seemed the height of imprudence to risk himself pursuing it. He exhaled, heard the bag crackle, and leaned out of the airlock.

  There was a handhold immediately to his left. He looked for more, and saw them spaced evenly at about two-foot intervals in both directions, up toward the blister and down toward the cargo deck.

  It was an odd sensation, looking out and feeling no movement, knowing they were not anchored, seeing nothing below but void. He pushed the thought aside, seized the handgrip, and swung himself onto the face of the hull. He'd never liked heights, but this wasn't at all the same. The experience was easier than he'd anticipated, and he moved almost casually down the ladder. It occurred to him that he hadn't been very hopeful, walking into the airlock with his plastic bag, his straw, and his paper clip. But now his confidence soared.

  Which reminded him: He'd stopped breathing. He exhaled, and his lungs refilled with no effort on his part.

  Exhale.

  He was warm. Getting warmer.

  He kept moving. The broken tread came into view, and he could see the engine nozzle and the cargo deck hatch, which looked as if it had been jimmied partway open. He got to it quickly, tested the handle, pulled on it, and found no give.

  But there was room for his fingers between the lip of the hatch and the seating. He shifted position, let go of the handgrip, got hold of the underside of the hatch with both hands, planted his feet against the hull, and pulled.

  Nothing.

  He tried again with the wrench and felt movement.

  Okay. Progress.

  He went after it, straining until sinews cracked. Sweat drenched the lining of the g-suit. A vapor formed across the inside of the bag and he had to stop. What had Evelyn said? Both vision and brain would fog? Maybe. But after this, he'd be the reigning authority on the subject.

  He loosened the paper clip. Pressure forced air out through the straw.

  The bag cleared.

  He was about to begin again when a bank of lights, some spaced along the middle of the sphere, others near the treads, blinked on. They went off and came on again.

  Count to five and start the engine.

  Son of a bitch. He swung back to his handholds and grabbed for dear life.

  He wasn't watching the nozzle, but he saw the glare from ignition on the metal in front of his face. In the same instant, the sudden acceleration threw him hard against the hull and tried to tear his arm out of his shoulder. Suddenly there was a down, very distinctly, and he dangled on the outside of the Micro, over an infinite precipice.

  He clung to the handhold. Agony lanced through fingers and shoulders. He tried to cut a deal with whatever power governed the universe.

  The grips had depressions, and he tried to find one with his foot so he could stand. Relieve some of the pressure. Don't forget to exhale. His wrench began to slide out of his belt.

  He found a foothold, let go briefly with one hand, and repositioned the wrench.

  Then the burn stopped and he was afloat again.

  He didn't know whether it was over. They hadn't thought to make an all-clear signal, so he hung on, waiting. His legs drifted away from the hull.

  He had to force himself to let go with one hand. He rubbed his shoulder and then, cautiously, let go with the other and repositioned himself over the hatch. He watched the lights the whole time.

  They did not come on.

  Exhale.

  He waited for feeling to return to his arms, and then inserted the wrench under the hatch and pulled on it. If he'd worked feverishly before, he now applied himself with desperation. He felt springs pop and the wrench slipped and he banged his hand, but he ignored it and continued to work.

 
; The hatch gave. And broke loose. Micro Flight Deck. 3:41 A.M.

  The voice snarled at her. "He's where?"

  "Outside."

  "Outside the ship?"

  "That is affirmative."

  "For God's sake-who am I talking to?"

  "The pilot."

  "What's your name, pilot?"

  "Rolnikaya."

  "Okay, Rolnikaya. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You get the vice president back inside. Now. Tell him Mr. Kerr wants to talk with him."

  "At the moment he's busy, Mr. Kerr. I'll tell him when he comes in." She broke the connection.

  8.

  Micro, outside the Cargo Deck. 3:42 A.M.

  Charlie pushed past the hatch, slipped into the airlock, and collapsed. He was breathing hard, literally panting, fogging the bag. He released the paper clip again, cautiously, remembering the warning about nosebleed. The bandanna was drenched.

  Saber was right: It felt like a sauna. That was odd. He'd always assumed space was cold.

  There was a status display on the bulkhead, and it had power. He found the white presspad, took a deep breath, and pushed. To his delight, the inner hatch opened.

  Lights were still on inside.

  Bigfoot's body, clothed in the p-suit, floated near the ladder, to which it was tethered. The suit looked broken and there were globules of blood drifting through the chamber. Charlie realized that every time Saber ran the engine, the body was slammed against the ladder.

  He'd have liked to stop and secure it. But he felt extraordinarily weary. His bag wouldn't clear up, so he was having trouble making out details around him. And he suspected some of the blood was inside the bag.

  It was hard to concentrate. Something touched his arm and his hair stood upright.

  Bigfoot's helmet.

  His hand closed on it and he had to think.

  Hold on to it.

  The locker. Where was the locker? He tried to remember. The part of his mind that remained clear seemed to be shrinking into a corner back in his head somewhere, somewhat like the effect that nitrous oxide produces in a dentist's office. He tried to fight it off. It occurred to him that he could no longer see the outside warning lights. But Saber could use the intercom to speak directly to C deck.

  Right?

  But there was no air. No medium to carry the sound.

  There were three lockers, she'd said. It was in the middle one. He pushed past tanks, cables, shelving. Feeling his way.

  He turned a corner. Drifted off the deck. Found a handhold, the side of a storage bin, something, and pulled himself back. And in this tortuous manner, half-blinded, operating out of a state that was neither rational nor deluded, he found the storage cabinets.

  He opened the middle one and felt the suit. And another helmet. Take both. Bigfoot's might be damaged. Wouldn't want to have to do this again. No sir. This was too much even for the vice president of the United States. He wrapped the helmets in the suit.

  He got back to the airlock, pushed the presspad, and watched the inner hatch close. He settled in to wait, and a minute went by before he realized he didn't need to bother because the outer hatch was already open, had been open.

  Make sure you've still got the suit.

  He did, and he felt for his ladder up the face of the moonbus. He didn't need it really. He could just lean out and launch. (He giggled at the thought.) Grab the hatch as he went by. Nothing to it.

  In fact, he wasn't sure which way was up. The ladder went in both directions. Which way was the passenger cabin and which way the treads? He went back inside the airlock-better safe than sorry-found the control panel, wiped a smeary arm across his bag-helmet, and tried to read the markings. But he could see nothing.

  Which way?

  Then he remembered the airlock benches. They were for sitting, so they had to be near the floor. Down. He wanted to go the other way.

  He found the benches, returned to the outer hatch, and checked the p-suit again. God help him if Saber had to start the engine. He seized a handhold and started up.

  It had been a mistake not to count the handholds coming down. He thought there'd been eight or nine. Or maybe thirteen. (He chuckled again.) But he was counting now as he climbed, and at six he began feeling for the hatch to the passenger cabin airlock, although he knew it was too soon. At thirteen, he still hadn't found it. He considered tearing the bag off so he could see.

  Exhale.

  What would happen if he missed it? Did the handgrips go completely around the bus? He visualized himself climbing forever, going round and round.

  Take off the bag. Roll the dice and settle it.

  Could he get inside before the vacuum killed him? Who knew? Certainly not Vice President Charles L. Haskell. He wondered what Sam would think if he could see him now.

  And his fingers closed around the hatch.

  TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 3:53 A.M.

  "This is Keith Morley on board the vice president's moonbus. Just minutes ago, Vice President Haskell successfully concluded an incredible rescue effort outside the ship…" Micro Passenger Cabin, 4:07 A.M.

  "Yes, Al, what is it?"

  "Are you all right, Charlie?"

  "I'm fine." That was hardly true, but considering the condition he might have been in, he was doing damned well. "I understand things are not so good at your end."

  "Yes. Miami Beach, New Orleans, completely destroyed. Eastern seaboard hit from Maine to the Florida Keys. Not as hard. Not total. But it's-" His voice broke and he began to sob softly. Al Kerr.

  Evelyn was climbing down from the flight deck, where she'd been in radio contact with Saber. She nodded and elaborately removed her oxygen mask.

  "They're estimating tens of thousands of casualties," Kerr continued in a voice only slightly less shaky. "But God knows what the count really is."

  Charlie's eyes squeezed shut. He thought of his own father and cousins, living at the Cape.

  "It's a goddammed disaster, Charlie. I don't think any of us had any idea-"

  "Okay." Charlie was trying to absorb what Kerr was telling him.

  "Something else. I don't know whether you've heard or not, but the other plane is missing. Maybe it's just a radio failure. I know they lost contact with you for a couple of hours, too."

  "The other plane? The one Rick's on?"

  "That's what they're telling us. I don't think they're hopeful. I'm sorry." There was a long pause. "Charlie, right now it looks as if there'll be a million dead before this is over. The president would have talked to you himself, except that he's buried right now. You understand."

  Buried.

  "Charlie, you should be aware there's some doubt here whether the country can survive this."

  "Yeah," he said. "I can see where there might be."

  "Henry wants you to put the best possible face on things. Stay upbeat. I mean, you're our point man on this. You've been there."

  "Al, you sound like Rick."

  "Yeah. I guess in the end we all end up sounding like Rick. Listen, what were you doing outside the ship? Isn't that dangerous?"

  "It's a bus."

  "Whatever."

  "I was trying to get a hatch open."

  "Okay. Don't do it any more, okay? Meantime, we'll get out a press release. Haskell Takes Charge, right?"

  "Let it go," said Charlie.

  "Charlie, I think the president will insist. Listen, we need all the PR we can get."

  Charlie didn't particularly like the president. But he knew that Henry took the job seriously, and had to be suffering all the torments of hell now. He wasn't a man to write off losses, to recognize that there were some situations in which you simply acted the best you could and hoped for the best. Charlie knew that Henry would be blaming himself. He could almost hear the president's explanation: Charlie, we should have started the evacuations right away. We were too worried about what we'd feed them away from their homes. We were worried about traffic jams, for God's sake. So they'd guessed wrong and a lot of people
had died.

  But Charlie knew that if he'd been there, he'd have found no fault with the course of action. He'd have gone along, thinking they were doing the right thing.

  For a few moments, the responsibility of the office touched him. He wondered now for the first time during his political career whether he really wanted to become president of the United States. Suddenly it was a dark and fearsome vision.

  When he got home and things settled down, he'd rethink things. Maybe withdraw his candidacy. It wasn't really that he was frightened of the office, but he needed to recognize his own limitations. The next president was going to be facing a wrecked nation. The simple truth was that they'd need someone better than Charlie Haskell. Charlie might have been okay for good times; but the United States had been plunged into a monumental disaster. The nation needed a Lincoln. Or a Teddy Roosevelt.

  Where in hell were they going to find one?

  Immediately after Kerr got off the phone, Saber reappeared at the airlock. She looked pleased with herself, and Charlie was happy for her. "You can't beat duct tape," she announced. And then she looked at Charlie, strapped down, his seat lowered. "You don't look so good." She wanted to give him something to help him sleep, but Charlie refused. Not tonight, of all nights. As if he could do something to help.

  "How bad do I look?" he asked Evelyn after Saber had gone back to the flight deck.

  "As if you've been in a fight. And lost." She held up a mirror: His face was bruised and he had two black eyes.

  "A lot of people dead tonight," he said.

  She nodded. "We heard."

  He hovered between exhaustion and horror.

  And there was more bad news. Saber called Evelyn up to the flight deck. When she came back she said they'd received word that communication had never been restored with the early flight. It was presumed lost with a hundred and one passengers and three crew.