by David Palmer
"No."
A brief silence ensued, interrupted as Terry continued: "APUs powered up."
"Me either. This is his eeriest performance yet."
"Amen."
Adam emerged from the bathroom and regarded the bird in perplexity. "I hate it when he does stuff like this. It's positively scary. He smiled faintly. "But he certainly has the patter down perfectly. He makes me want to rush to the nearest television and watch."
"Me too." I could have kissed the silly goose; that was the first time Adam had smiled in days.
Perching relaxed on one leg, eyes half-closed, head tilted back slightly and sunk between his shoulders, Terry droned on: "Main engine gimbals nominal."
Adam sat on the couch. "What's for breakfast?"
"Oh-two vents closing. H-two pressurization okay—going for launch. . . ."
"Pancakes, bacon and eggs, cocoa, and orange juice," I replied.
"APU start is go," said Terry.
"Nectar of the gods," Adam approved.
"The on-board computer is on the job."
"I wonder how long he's going to keep it up," Adam mused. "He's just about through the launch sequence, if memory serves."
"Five, four—main engine start—two, one . . ."
"That long." I grinned.
". . . zero—solid booster ignition—LIFT-OFF . . . !" Terry shrilled the last two words, voice cracking, flapping violently.
Lisa shot bolt upright in bed and screamed. Her eyes stared, round and unseeing. She clutched at the bed as if to steady herself.
"Wow . . . !" Terry was bobbing his head now; even I could recognize the manic delight in his expression. "Wow . . . !" he squealed again; "we're boldly going . . . !"
Lisa's eyes cleared and focused as I reached her. She looked around dazedly. Then she closed her eyes again and—I swear!—she looked around inside the lids. "Gee," she breathed. "I thought I was dreaming. This is neat!"
Adam caught my eye. His brow crooked.
"Instituting roll," offered Terry.
"Lisa, honey," I said gently, "what's happening?"
She didn't answer for whole minutes. Finally I shook her gently. "Lisa?"
She opened her eyes. The faraway look was back.
"Main engine throttle-back," said Terry.
"Lisa?"
"Max Q.," said Terry.
"We're going fast," came the dreamy reply.
"What . . . ?" said Adam, eyeing her sharply.
Now I regretted not having discussed with him my previous conversations with her on this subject. I shook my head quickly and intensely, indicated Lisa behind her back, and caroled, "We can talk about it lay-ter."
"Main engines back up to 100 percent."
Adam caught on but didn't look pleased. He stared across at Terry, still bobbing and flapping, and then down at Lisa's closed eyes and entranced expression.
"Solid booster separation," said Terry helpfully.
Adam's expression was a study in confusion and misery, untouched by hope. "We sure will," he muttered darkly.
* * *
VOLUME V
Revelation
Damn!—hope this turns out legible. Easier things to do than trying to write Pitman shorthand while floating weightless in dark, scared to death, sole illumination furnished by flashlight wedged between hull braces, hand gripping pen encased in bulky EMU glove and possessing every reason to shake.
Never been so terrified in whole short, violence-prone life. Still not afraid of death per se—though if guessed wrong (as well may have, with limited data on which forced to make decision) impending demise promises to be painful enough to satisfy fantasies of even most demanding masochist.
No; fear based upon possibility might have guessed even wronger; in which case probably won't be physically painful at all: Instead will have several hours in which to dwell on consequences sure to befall family, friends—all my people.
Would accept eternity of physical torture to keep that from happening.
Yes, Posterity, it's me again: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, adventuress, aviatrix, heroine at large—would-be Plucky Girl Savior Of Our People—at your service.
So what's nice girl like me doing in place like this? Kind of thought that might be next question. Sweating, that's what—and trembling like leaf.
Plus working feverishly to complete account of past four days in wan hope that at least this record will survive next few hours; alert hominem community to continuing existence of implacable threat to species' very survival.
Modest enough ambition; and from cursory inspection of problem, odds slightly encouraging, given precautions now in works: Shall encase completed volume inside one EMU; place that inside another, stick that inside third. With thermostats turned down all the way, triple insulation should keep paper below magic 451-degree mark.
And EMU sandwich better protect volume; because if gets anywhere near that hot, as probably will, record inherits sole responsibility for passing on warning—Your Obedient Servant will have been parboiled in own juices long since.
(Don't like to think about that part—but important thing is this record must reach Teacher . . . !)
Suspect am rambling. Partially deliberate, partially self-indulgent: First, good therapy—trying to reestablish semblance of control over writing hand; reduce shaking to point where penmanship legible to someone besides own (probably, by then, dearly departed) self. And does seem to be working. Somewhat. Spastic scribbles clearing up perceptibly as necessary concentration on task blanks out distraction of surroundings, past horrific events, future possibly worse ones; pothooks starting to look purposeful again.
Self-indulgence therapeutic, too, Fair idea how much time remains before fate determined. Need to keep psyche occupied between now, then. Sure to lose control otherwise. And last thing need up here is screaming, arm-flapping, hysterical crazy. Particularly when crazy is self.
Okay, shaking under control now. Mostly. On with show:
Wakened at 3:30 A. M. , morning of launch, by Gayle, obviously trying not to cry. Felt sorry for her; pretended not to notice, engaged her in idle conversation, avoiding The Subject. Took advantage of opportunity for final luxurious hot shower—with Nathan Hale stripped of amenities, would be last opportunity. Very last . . . .
Pushed bleak awareness of impending doom into remote corner of mind; sternly told stay there, shut up; went to breakfast/farewell party. Harris Gilbert, Mission Commander, and Kyril Svetlanov, Russian bomb expert, both there already, together with everyone who could be spared from countdown duties.
My breakfast consisted of medium-rare filet; fluffy scrambled eggs on toast; pancakes with maple syrup; orange juice, milk; huge slab of rich, moist chocolate cake with thick, dark, almost-bitter chocolate icing. Wonderful . . . !
Not exactly USDA-recommended breakfast menu for 11-year-old girl, granted. But weight-saving considerations precluded taking much in way of food on mission; big last meal important—plus was, symbolically at least, Last Meal in other sense as well, so damn well ate what I wanted.
(Curiously, knowledge of approaching death affects appetite only during first couple days after notification; loses effect thereafter. Had no difficulty stuffing face to repletion.)
But then came farewells from those able to attend. That was difficult. Teacher, emotions under most tenuous control, made short speech; expressed gratitude of entire hominem community; assured us would not be forgotten. He shook men's hands, embraced briefly. Then hugged me long, hard, our tears mingling; kissed lips gently—left room abruptly.
Others lined up along route to launch complex. Got hugged, cried on en passant by people hadn't even met yet. Finally found ourselves strapped to seats atop Nathan Hale, beginning crew-participation phase of countdown.
All three wore spacesuits (very latest models; theoretically Van-Allen-radiation-proof [as if mattered!]) to preclude pressure drop imperiling mission—this was one shuttle flight that had to continue, regardless what minor glitches might arise.
; Both men wore standard-issue EMUs. But mine product of heroic postproduction reengineering of smallest available size: Had to fit through 9–by-14 detonator access hatch inside bomb, plus still leave room for own four-foot-ten-inch frame. And does. Just.
Rigid aluminum upper-torso frame on which shoulder constant-velocity joints mount leaves precious little room for secondary sexual characteristics. But fortunately (narrowly circumstance-limited usage!) am not stunning example of physically precocious 11-year-old girl; assets compressed, but not uncomfortably so. Likewise with hip/fanny development: Were another half-inch of me, doubt could stuff into corresponding lower-torso/hips CV-joint attachment frame.
My portable life-support-system package not physically mounted on suit's back as with other two's suits, and as have been since shuttles' introduction. AA engineers debated whether easier, more reliable, to reconfigure PLSS components into 8.5 by 13.5 package or detach from suit, couple with lines long enough to allow me to reach detonator while PLSS remains outside; settled on latter.
Helmet solution classic example of back-alley mechanics' triumph over engineering sophistication: Excised broad strip from spherical one-piece Lexan bubble; rejoined edges by drilling bunch of tiny holes along edges, slipping edges into slots in narrow, bent-H-shaped strap fashioned from titanium. Tightening myriad small bolts compresses H's legs together, forcing gaskets against Lexan, forming strong joint, positive seal. Resultant helmet normal size laterally; much shallower fore-and-aft: With occipital hair firmly pressed against rear, nose has about one inch clearance at front. Don't know how they regained circular shape at neck for attachment to upper-torso sealing ring, but did.
Waist sealing ring, on other hand, doesn't even pretend to be round. Sealing involves assembling, tightening bunches of bolts, washers, wing-nuts; compressing ring halves together. Lots more complicated than other suits.
Well, launch proved every bit as thrilling as advertised. Countdown smooth, no Holds; managed to perform own assignments without irreversible error. . . .
And then LCD clock was flashing last few seconds:
". . . main engine start," I puffed, restrained from bouncing up and down in chair by harness; ". . . two, one, zero . . . !"
Half wondered, during training, whether concentration on rapid-fire copilot duties might keep me too busy to experience, enjoy excitement of launch. But not to worry—missed nothing: Adrenaline surged through veins; palms grew damp, breath rapid; heartbeat pounded inside skull until drowned out by wondrous, swelling, all-encompassing roar which took form, grew until pervaded entire universe, seemingly unto my very bones.
And then: ". . . solid booster ignition—LIFT-OFF . . . !" I shouted, voice cracking with excitement.
And we did—though disgraced myself by squealing, "Wow . . . ! Wow . . . ! We're boldly going . . . !" as gee forces drove me back into seat cushions.
Momentarily wished Terry could be here; would love rush, acceleration, sensation of power throbbing in very air—could almost feel baby brother's toenails gripping shoulder as bobbed head, yelled approval.
Caught briefest glimpse of Harris's private superior smile before voice of Ground Control dragged attention back to task at hand: "Nathan Hale, you're clear of tower. All engines look good."
"Roger," I replied, trying to sound as if did this sort of thing every day (not easy while in throes of ultimate fantasy-gratification); "instituting roll."
My instruments, CRTs, etc., continued to show optimum readings as we reached, exceeded Mach One. Control announced computer-instituted main engine throttle-back (earlier, deeper than usual, due to combination of doubled SRB thrust and to need protect now-vulnerable, easily melted aluminum skin)—redundantly, far as I was concerned: Reduction in gees quite perceptible.
Max-Q arrived on schedule; engines throttled up to 100 percent; I informed Control. SRB separation came about one minute later; gee forces abated slightly. But a few minutes thereafter computer again throttled back main engines to avoid exceeding three gees as fuel load lightened.
After running external tank dry on schedule (resultant mixture-imbalance flame-out totaled main engines [Harris cringed, but reuse not contemplated in mission profile—and needed every drop]), we fired up orbital maneuvering system. Some time later Harris announced we had sufficient delta-V to reach geosynchronous orbit; shut down OMS. Everything had worked like clockwork.
We took care of final housekeeping details necessary to put Hale on hold for next three days; assumed belly-sunward attitude to keep heat off cargo bay fuel tank, opened bay doors . . .
And finally had time to breathe. Shed EMUs with relief. Grouped around windows, admiring beauty of Earth Seen From Orbit, pointing out familiar landmarks. Chatted animatedly a while thereafter, rehashing launch, generally unwinding from intense concentration involved.
Hard to say just when pendulum started back. But presently noticed three of us drifting around cabin, trying not to meet each other's eyes. And could have cut silence with shovel.
Understandable, of course: Letdown following excitement of launch, coupled with knowledge that we had absolutely nothing to do during three days would take Hale to complete long outward parabola, together with trying not to think about what would happen within single day following mission's completion, combined to lay pall on company.
All well on way toward satisfying wallow in melancholy by time Harris recognized own symptoms, those of others; roused himself sufficiently to call halt: "This will never do, people. I don't like what's happening here. If we keep this up for three days, we'll all be in catatonic withdrawal when the time comes to do our jobs."
Kyril blinked, looked around momentarily as if startled. Felt much same way myself. But, tending more toward assertiveness (i.e., spoiled brattiness) than gentle Russian, fought for my right to become zombie; snarled, "Leave me alone. I don't feel like company right now."
"Neither do I," Harris replied sternly. "But I'm going to have it—and so are you."
Harris doesn't have to raise voice to make point; has Command Presence: lot like Daddy in that respect.
Already snapping out of incipient depression before properly finished resenting intrusion. Performed quick self-inventory; found Commander right as usual. Apologized for rude tone. Harris accepted with grace.
We turned to find Kyril grinning at us. "Shucks . . ." he teased; "chumps again, just when things getting engrossable. Was processed to grieve for absenting of popmaize and fellow random numerologist with whom to collate speculatings. Mutiny's outcome providing abstruse handihatting. Absence of gravity outsetting size to broadness extant, but thinking my trove still on Commander."
Corners of Harris's mouth twitched; fixed me with penetrating eye, shook head imperceptibly. "Just don't bet too much 'trove' on me," he advised. "I'm getting too old to mix it up with anyone as young and flexible as Candy."
Kyril's grin broadened; appreciated self-deprecating humor: As if little girl could pose a challenge to tough old ex-Marine.
(But exchange left me regarding Harris with bemusement. Suddenly realized that, while no one had ever said anything to me on subject, neither had anyone ever mentioned my martial-arts ranking in Kyril's presence. Russian obviously still in dark about nature of my strength—equally obvious: Harris preferred to keep it that way; apparently my capabilities Top Secret for time being where Russian concerned. Attitude seemed extreme, but respected unspoken wishes; kept own counsel.)
"There, that's better," Harris approved. "Everybody's smiling again. Now the question is: How do we stay this way for three days? We couldn't bring a damned thing to occupy our hands and minds—not even a pack of cards. So how do we stay interested and alert and avoid getting lost in terminal introspection?"
Kyril's face lit up like kid's at Christmas. " 'Terminal,' you are saying? How about we programming BFS computer's unused memory to do video gaming on CRT? Is being lots of capacity."
Harris looked thoughtful; could see him mentally reviewing backup flight-system softwa
re interfaces for boobytraps potentially affecting mission. Then face brightened. "Good idea. I'll block off a couple of files to keep us out of trouble; then we can start writing the programs.
"Only"—eyes danced at prospect—"instead of emulating just another video game, let's write an interactive orbital-mechanics simulator for Candy—that's more fun than Space Invaders." Kyril rubbed hands in agreement. Both fell to.
Took them better part of first day to write, debug program. Kept me in stitches whole time with gleeful deadpan technical sophistry, arguing nonstop about respective programming skills, techniques, etc. Was like watching Laurelovich & Hardy Olde Tyme Comedy.
But finally complete; proud creators placed me before terminal, explained keyboard basics—then sat back to watch (laughing fool heads off, offering contradictory advice), as attempted to master deceptively simple-appearing, diabolic complexities of orbital relationships.
CRT display consisted of two-dimensional representation of orbital problem: Small circle in middle represented planet, gravitational source; two objects circled primary, one oblong, one triangular. Hypothetical shuttle orbited close-in, at high speed; target satellite, located two-thirds of way to screen's edge, moved much more slowly. Shuttle's fuel status presented in lower right-hand corner; figures updated continuously as power used, whether reaction control system (attitude control) or thrust. Control inputs (vector, feet-per-second; whether RCS, OMS) displayed at lower left.
Object of game was orbital rendezvous, docking. Operator keyed in delta-V changes, trying to alter vehicle's orbit, effect rendezvous. Once orbits very closely matched, screen shifted to large-scale display; enabled close-in maneuvering, docking.
But quickly discovered orbital mechanics ain't easy—in fact, ran out of fuel 13 times back-to-back before discovering basic principle by accident: Farther out the orbit, slower the orbital speed (everybody knows that)—but to overtake target ahead in same orbit, necessary to slow vehicle! Speeding up forces you out into wider, slower orbit—never catch up. Reducing delta-V drops you into lower, faster orbit. Short burn necessary to circularize new orbit. After overtaking target on inside track, add delta-V, which moves you back out into wider, slower orbit; then circularize again.