The Moonfall

by Jack McDevitt

  Simultaneously Carpenter activated the simulation. The main screen acquired an image of how the Possum should react; and an overlay in red depicted what was actually happening. So long as there was no divergence between white and red graphics, they would be okay.

  The tension in the compartment was so great that Feinberg actually felt faint. The space had become claustrophobic, and he would have done almost anything to get normal gravity. His stomach pressed on his heart.

  He'd found it difficult to eat since leaving Atlanta. All his anatomical systems seemed to be in disarray. He wished he'd insisted on staying at the AstroLab, where he'd have been more effective because he wouldn't have been constantly ill.

  The program brought in the other engines, went to full thrust here, quarter thrust there. It played the seven power plants like a symphony.

  At zero plus one minute the tumble began to slow. The Possum edged toward stability.

  Feinberg had placed Lowell at the rear of the Possum to take full advantage of its nuclear capability. There it would run throughout the operation at full power, acting as a kind of outboard motor.

  The phone, surprisingly, did not ring. Carpenter had thought Haskell would be on it constantly, demanding updates throughout the operation, wasting his time. But it remained silent.

  TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 4:15 A.M..

  "This is Angela Shepard outside Union Station in Chicago. Despite the late hour, you can see that enormous crowds have gathered here along Jackson Boulevard. The flight from the city goes on, but many of those who remain are coming together in the downtown area. We're getting reports that the same phenomenon is occurring throughout the Midwest, people gathering to await the outcome of the Rainbow mission. Here, the streets are filled, bells are tolling, traffic's at a standstill. But it's almost a festive atmosphere, unlike the terrifying scenes we witnessed over the weekend from the coastal cities, and even earlier today in parts of the Midwest.

  "It's as if some vast herd instinct has taken over. People we've talked to seem to be optimistic. By ten to one, in our informal poll, they say they think the rock will be stopped. Some have brought pots and cowbells, and they're ready to celebrate.

  "There've been some arrests for disorderly behavior, but police are telling us it's not what you might expect, not people looting stores, but just folks partying a little too hard. I have to say, it's one of the strangest things I've ever seen. We came here tonight expecting to see panic, and instead we get this." (Camera pans the street filled with people laughing and singing.)

  "They've been told that, if the Possum comes, they'll be able to see it from here, looking toward the southwest. It's a warm night. The Moon-cloud is down, and the sky is absolutely clear.

  "Almost everybody has a TV. They're slung over shoulders, or slipped into back pockets. The stores all seem to be open and televisions are on everywhere. I'm looking now at an image of this broadcast in the window of a furniture store. These folks started arriving in the early evening and they've been here all night. Whatever happens this morning, you have to admire the courage of these people." (Off-camera applause.)

  "Back to you, Don. This is Angela Shepard in Chicago."

  4.

  Minot, North Dakota. 3:16 A.M. Central Daylight Time (4:16 A.M. EDT).

  Minot might have had a little more steel in its blood than the average North Dakota town. Its citizenry was reinforced by a large population of air force dependents, who'd decided they couldn't do anything about the danger in the sky, but who'd gathered at two elementary schools and kept them open for the hundreds of lost and stranded people who were coming in from the south. Now, with some bacon and scrambled eggs in her stomach, Marilyn Keep felt much better. She stood with her husband in a small crowd outside the Dwight Eisenhower Elementary School auditorium, drinking coffee and half watching a battery-powered TV somebody had put on a chair.

  Most of the USAF operational personnel were gone, hauling supplies to stricken areas, carrying out sick and injured, trying to get through the emergency as best they could. But the support people, and the dependents, were still in Minot.

  Marilyn was asked about New York, and she described the flooded streets, the sense of being isolated on the rooftop, the child against whom she'd closed the door. ("It's okay" someone said, "you couldn't help it.")

  The television carried a close-up of one of the space planes, the long fiery lances from its twin engines illuminating the dark rock. They were two minutes into the operation now, and the reporter said that everything was going well. So far. Even if it didn't, she thought, even if the situation broke down, surely they were far enough north to be safe.

  Surely. Percival Lowell Utility Deck. 4:20 A.M. Zero plus six.

  The reality was that Keith Morley had no idea how things were going. He was in effect doing play-by-play, and he'd assumed that he'd somehow be able to see the operation. But he had only the images being transmitted from the monitoring vessels, flashes of light in the darkness, recognizable on close-up as flames boiling out of rockets. But there was no way to know what, if anything, was happening with the Possum. He had no background against which to measure movement. For that matter, he couldn't be sure that any apparent movement wasn't a result of changes in the position of the sensors on the circling ferries.

  He'd tried to stay close to the president, but Haskell was up front in the copilot's chair and Lee Cochran was up there too, so there was no room for Morley.

  But this president seemed to be unusually aware of the influence of the media. He called to tell Morley they were on schedule, and that was good, but Morley still had no real details. Nevertheless, he knew approximately what was supposed to happen throughout the operation, so he began simply to fabricate an account, assuming everything was happening as it should, and that they'd tell him if something went wrong. And there was this: If he was wrong, if he was caught hanging out, the world was going to have bigger problems than to simply come after an unfortunate journalist.

  "The Possum's tumble has slowed by about thirty percent," he told a global audience. SSTO Berlin Flight Deck. 4:21 A.M. Zero plus seven.

  It may have been there were just too many things that could go wrong, too many moving parts, too much guesswork, too much improvisation.

  The radio operator from the Mabry was reporting that the Possum was accelerating precisely along predicted lines. Gruder had never doubted it would be so. Assume success, adhere to the math, prepare for breakdowns, and keep focused on the task at hand. It was the formula around which he'd built his professional life. Unlike the bureaucrats, who were fond of saying "Win some, lose some."

  So far there'd been little for him to do. He sat inside his p-suit, savoring the experience and contemplating a future filled with people pointing him out and saying, Yes, that's Gruder Muller; he was with the fleet when they turned the Possum aside. If he never did anything else it wouldn't matter. He could die tomorrow and his life would have been a success.

  It was a glorious feeling. He'd always wanted to be a hero, and it was actually happening.

  "Zero plus eight," said the Mabry. "Vector still looks good."

  The Berlin crew had been on the Possum for almost three hours, and Gruder had detected a pattern in the way the Sun and Earth crisscrossed the skies of the microworld. It had been impossible to predict, except in very general terms, where a celestial body would rise. But he'd gotten the timing down. And now everything was running late. A good sign.

  The view ahead was obstructed by a low mound, not much higher than the top of the spacecraft and flowing off into embracing ridges on either side. As he watched, the rim of Earth appeared over its left-hand incline.

  Willem Stephan glanced at the fuel-use indicator. They had a ten-minute supply left at full burn. The program had nine minutes to run. Perfect. Stephan opened a channel to his crew. "I think we all deserve a good dinner when we get back," he said.

  Kathleen, sitting beside him, raised her left hand to caution against premature celebrati
on. Gruder, however, was of the same mind as the pilot, and had begun to think that sauerbraten and beer would fit the occasion well.

  One of the imponderables had been the cohesiveness and stability of the rock. Feinberg had been forced to make estimates based on sensor readings and samples, which would not necessarily reveal, say, fissures or stress fractures. The rock in the area of the Berlin, which had melted during the collision with Tomiko, had not sufficiently rehardened before enduring a pair of subsequent collisions. As a result, it had developed a series of microscopic cracks. The twin rocket engines, operating at full thrust, were putting extreme pressure on the cracks. Now, while Gruder contemplated sauerbraten, one of them broke under the strain.

  The port-side piton tore loose from the rock. The spacecraft twisted violently to starboard. Willem went immediately to manual, intending to shut off the engines. But it was too late. The rear piton broke apart within seconds, and the starboard side crumpled immediately thereafter. The SSTO roared across the rockscape and blasted into the mound at full throttle. Both fuel tanks exploded, and a fireball rose into the sky.

  5.

  TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 4:23 A.M.

  "… just moments ago. Authorities haven't yet said what effect the loss of the plane will have on the mission. We can hope, Don, that the process was far enough along that the remaining six spacecraft will be enough to finish the job. As of this moment there's just no word. We're trying to get through now to get a statement. Meanwhile, let's break away to Kitt Peak where the astronomers have been watching developments closely.

  "This is Keith Morley on the Percival Lowell, anchored on the Possum." Antonia Mabry, Mission Control. 4:24 A.M.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, dammit!" Feinberg, who'd always prided himself on his aplomb, heard his voice going shrill. He was close to tears. The silhouettes on the display had separated and were growing steadily farther apart.

  "If we keep pushing-" insisted Carpenter.

  "It won't be enough. All we've done so far is move the impact point to the southeast."

  "Where?"

  "My God, I don't know. Do we care?"

  "Yes, we care."

  "Okay. Try eastern Florida. Jacksonville, maybe. Cape Canaveral. The ocean. Who knows?"

  The phone sounded. "That'll be Haskell," said Carpenter. He looked panicked. "What do we tell him?"

  "The truth," said Feinberg. "Tell him the truth. Meantime, I suggest we shut down." Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 4:25 A.M.

  "So we just give up?" Charlie's blood pounded in his temples.

  The steady thrum of Lowell's engine died as it went to its equivalent of idle. "We don't have any option, Mr. President."

  "Why not? What do we lose by trying?"

  There was a click and Feinberg was on the line. "You must accept the situation, sir," he said. "It cannot be done, and we are only pushing the impact point east. Toward the Atlantic. If this thing falls into the ocean, which is already a distinct possibility, you'll be looking at an even greater catastrophe."

  Charlie sagged. "My God in heaven."

  "There's simply nothing we can do," said Feinberg.

  Carpenter came back: "We've directed the Kordeshev to stand by to pick you up, and the Talley is on its way to get the crewmembers off Arlington. Please be ready to go. We've only got thirty minutes to effect the rescues. We're going to direct the other spacecraft to release the pitons and get the hell off the rock."

  "No," said Charlie. "Isn't there any kind of fallback plan at all?"

  "No, sir. I'm sorry. We've done what we could. We've done everything we could." Feinberg again, sounding annoyed, defensive.

  The flight deck swam. Charlie had conceived an animosity for the Possum, a personal loathing. He still had an option, he could still nuke the son of a bitch. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to keep his head. "We still have some time. Let's think about it. There must be something…"

  "If you can come up with an idea, Mr. President, you're a better man than I am. Meanwhile, the Arlington and your own vessel are chained to the rock. If we don't get the crews out quickly, including yourself, you'll all go down with it."

  "We'll stay put for now," said Charlie. "Nobody leaves until I give the order. You understand?"

  "Mr. President-" Carpenter's voice. "Please-"

  "Be ready to move if you have to. But not till I tell you." But physics is not politics. You can't make something work just by trying harder.

  He broke the connection and stared into a red haze.

  "You all right, sir?" Rachel's voice.

  "I'm fine," he said. "We're not doing so good, but I'm fine."

  "What was it with the Berlin? A blown piton?"

  "I guess. I don't know."

  She nodded. The flight deck was silent. "I've got all kinds of calls for you, Mr. President."

  "Not now," he said.

  TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 4:26 A.M.

  "… they've shut down the rockets. Right now the entire fleet, five SSTOs and the Percival Lowell, are still on the Possum, but nothing's happening. Bruce, I've been trying to get through to the command ship, which as you know is the Antonia Mabry, but they're not responding. I've also got a call in to President Haskell. I have to be honest, at the moment the situation here looks bleak." Skyport Orbital Lab. 4:27 A.M.

  "They've given up." Windy Cross braced his elbows on his work table, and buried his face in his hands. "It's over."

  Tory sat paralyzed, listening to the electronic burble of the equipment. Images of the Possum played across a dozen screens, including the main display from Rainbow Mission Control, on which the twin representations of the object, red and white, had drawn hopelessly far apart.

  Andrea Bellwether was signaling for her attention. "I have Keith Morley on the circuit," she said. "He's trying to find out what's happening."

  "Hell, we don't know anything," Windy said. "Tell him to call Carpenter."

  "He says Carpenter isn't taking calls."

  "Goddam right. I wouldn't either." His voice dropped an octave. "Tell him they've thrown in the towel, and you'll start a panic."

  "You think there isn't going to be one anyhow?"

  "That's okay. Let somebody else take the heat. We're out of it."

  • • • Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 4:28 A.M.

  "They're telling me it's not possible, Al."

  "For God's sake, Charlie, what are we going to do?"

  "I don't know." Rachel was watching Charlie as if she thought he might be on the verge of a stroke. "I don't know, Al. If you have any ideas, this'd be a good time."

  "Listen, we're still doing a dance out there with the press. What do you want to tell them?"

  So in the end it came down to that. As if it were somehow Charlie Haskell's fault that the world is about to end. What do you want to tell them?

  A message light blinked on. "Carpenter," said Rachel's voice. "He says it's urgent."

  "Hold a second, Al." He switched channels. "Haskell."

  "Mr. President. We've got to evacuate. Do it now or forget it."

  Charlie stared at the polished black handset. At that moment he'd have preferred to put a knife into his heart. SSTO Arlington Flight Deck. 4:29 A.M.

  "Arlington, stand by for evacuation."

  George listened to his own breathing, magnified inside the p-suit. Beside him, Mary released her harness.

  No one said anything. They got slowly out of their seats. It almost looked as if they were laboring under heavy gravity.

  FRANK CRANDALL'S ALL-NIGHTER. 4:30 A.M.

  "As you know, we've been devoting the show tonight to coverage of the attempt to deflect the Possum. We have a bulletin here, and I want you to listen closely. Scientists at the AstroLab have been quoted as saying that the loss of a space plane a few minutes ago means that the Possum cannot now be stopped. They estimate that the impact site, however, has moved farther east. No one is yet willing to say on the record where it is likely to fall, but unofficially th
ey are suggesting the southeastern United States or the Caribbean. Bill Plant is at the AstroLab now, and we'll be going over there in just a moment.

  "I want to add that we're going to be cutting this edition of the show short. As you know, we're based in Miami, and we want to let our people get home to their families. So after our report from the AstroLab, we'll be returning you to the network. We'll look for you tomorrow night at our regular time. I hope.

  "This is the Old Trooper signing off."

  6.

  Skyport Orbital Lab. 4:31 A.M.

  Tory Clark was never sure precisely when she had the idea. It seemed as if it had been flickering just beyond the limits of perception since dinner, since she'd heard about the three ferries that would accompany the SSTOs out to the Possum. The Kordeshev. The Mabry. The Talley. All named for crewmembers on Frank Bellwether's lost Ranger. And Andrea Bellwether, Frank's daughter, sat just a few paces away.

  Bellwether.

  Maybe the problem was that Feinberg and the rest of them were thinking in a box.

  There might still be a way. Antonia Mabry, Mission Control. 4:32 A.M.

  "No, Tory," said Feinberg. "It wouldn't work. It's too massive."

  "Are you sure?"

  Of course he was sure.

  "What else have you got?" she persisted.

  Feinberg had never liked Tory Clark. She was a little too pushy for his tastes, and what was her background anyhow? She was just one more camp follower. "I don't really have time to argue about this."

  "What do you have time for, Professor? Why not try it? What's to lose?"

  "What's to lose? I'll tell you what's to lose. We've already driven it too far. It's probably going to go down in the ocean. That's not the best possible outcome. Moreover, to even try your idea, we'd have to sacrifice the people in the ships. Is that what you want? "