"You're sure?"
"Ran the numbers past one of your pet eggheads twice. Ran it past another one to be sure. Got the same answer each time, which is enough of a miracle that I pinched myself to see if I was dreamin'. Only one way I can think of that it makes sense, and I've got both of them calculatin’ to see if I'm right."
"Which is?"
"They used more fuel than they expected gettin’ to lunar orbit, but they have enough to swing around the Moon a few times and trot back home. Or they could make a landin’ and get back to Earth, but just barely. They'll have no control over where they'll come down, but the Southwest is a likely spot. They're up there right now tryin’ to make a go/no-go decision, and they want to know if we'll help."
Mc Cauley sat completely still for a moment and then nodded. “That fits,” he said slowly. “They have two choices. They can play it safe, make the birthday broadcast, call it a successful science mission, and land anywhere they want. Or they can go for the gold, do the landing, and come down wherever chance puts them. Odds are better than even it will put them somewhere inconvenient. Do you remember the most recent briefing we had on the capabilities of the Soyuz capsule?"
"Yep. Our guys say they're kinda marginal for a splashdown. Darn silly way to build a spacecraft. Two thirds of the planet is water, and they design a craft that doesn't float much better than a brick. Ours sit up on the water like fishing bobbers, even look a lot like ‘em."
"And their navy doesn't have a quarter the coverage area of ours anyway, so if they have to splash down anywhere, we're likely to get there first.” He thought a moment. “If you're right, then if we say no, they won't risk the landing. We still have a chance to be first."
"If things are as we think, and if they think the way we think they think, then maybe."
"That's got to be the least definite thing anybody anywhere ever said."
"We're making a lot of assumptions from two sentences. Based on the data we have, I think we understand the situation they're in. When it comes to the choices they're making, we're on shakier ground. What would we do if the first men on the Moon landed here on their way home? Shoot ‘em, arrest them for trespassing, or give them a parade and send them home in first-class style? I can't predict it myself, so it's darn sure that they don't know. They may be scared. If it was me landing in Russia after twisting the bear's tail, I'd be pretty pessimistic about my welcome. Remember the U2 incident, when they shot down Gary Powers? What was it they sentenced him to, ten years at hard labor?"
"This is different...."
"How? To who? They could come down anywhere. Can you guarantee that some hick sheriff wouldn't shoot a guy in a Soviet uniform on sight?"
"Well, no, but...” The argument was interrupted by the phone ringing, and Mc Cauley snatched it up. “Hello? Yes, it is ... Yes, sir. A conference call with the President? Of course I'll wait.” He covered the phone with his hand and whispered to Conley. “That was Administrator Low. He's at the White House now briefing the President, and they have questions. Sit right there and don't move."
"Nowhere else I've gotta be,” Conley drawled as he leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.
"I can't believe it, I'm going to talk to...” His voice returned to his usual volume level, but higher pitched than usual. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Gentlemen, Mr. President, less than an hour ago we received a very long-distance call..."
It took about ten minutes for Mc Cauley to get through the explanation. His sentences were interrupted by long silences and then explanations, each prefaced by “Yes, Mr. President,” or “No, Doctor Kissinger.” When he finally hung up the phone, he was sweating and looked exhausted.
"Just a casual little chat with a couple of buddies,” observed Conley cheerfully. “What'd they say?"
"President Nixon told me to tell them we'll help. Administrator Low didn't sound too happy about it."
"Nope, he wouldn't. He's got no use for the Russians, none at all. I met him once when he was visiting the missile test range down in the Bahamas, back when I was launch supervisor there. We had a subcontractor engineer from GE down there, guy named Olenikov or something, from New York City, but his parents came from somewhere near Moscow. It got Olenikov's goat that I kept calling his company Generally Hectic, and one time he grumbled something at me in Russian that I'd imagine wasn't too complimentary. Well, Low overheard this and just about came unglued. He ordered the guy out, and as soon as he left the room, changed every security code on the base. Olenikov had every clearance in the book, checked and double-checked, but Low didn't want him near those missiles. Too bad, because as GE techs go, the guy was pretty good, actually fixed some problems instead of always explainin’ how they were caused by somebody else's equipment."
"Well, Administrator Low was probably just concerned about security...."
"I think he just hates the Soviets, individually and collectively. He's from Austria, but he's got relatives right across the border in Czechoslovakia. He hasn't heard from some of them since the Soviets rolled tanks last year to smash that Prague Spring thing. He seems to have taken it personally. Wouldn't bother him a bit if those guys in the capsule returned to Earth without slowin’ down."
"He did argue with Dr. Kissinger a lot. Henry is all for it, sounds like he figures it's going to happen anyway, so we might as well make it so they owe us some favors. Low thinks it's a trick, same as that communications tech, what's his name?"
"Robert E. Butler, named after a certain citizen of Virginia. I'd have liked Bob even if he wasn't named after a southern gentleman, because he's a good man. Solid as a rock. Only one of the four comm guys on duty that kept his head about him when Apollo 8 went up,” He paused a moment, as everyone did when they mentioned that day. “Brought his kid to visit last week, and the brat was all over the place, trying to touch everything. Kept two men busy tryin’ to stop him, and I was findin’ greasy fingerprints on the equipment for hours. Kid must eat nothin’ but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches all day and never washes his hands."
"We'll have to reexamine that policy about allowing children here on visiting days."
"You're a born administrator, goin’ from talking with the President one minute to petty personnel issues the next."
"Maybe I am. I'm stuck in the details these days. I used to dream about going up myself."
"Like we all have,” observed Conley. “I reckon it's the reason we're here. For now, it's about someone else coming down instead of us going up."
"And in about ten minutes they'll be in range again, and we can tell them the welcome mat is out. Let's go stand by our end on the phone."
* * * *
Despite the order not to tell anybody about the message, the Mission Control center was packed with people who all had that look employees only get when the boss arrives suddenly. Heads were down, men shuffled from place to place with papers clutched in their hands, and technicians peered intently at meter needles that weren't moving and screens that were blank. Conley snorted and Mc Cauley almost laughed. What did he expect? The word was out. There was no putting the cat back in the bag, so he might as well make sure that they all knew where things stood.
"All right, gentlemen, listen up!” The room went quiet and every head snapped in his direction, eyes wide with interest. “I just got off the phone with President Nixon. The President of the United States directs that if the Soviet spacecraft needs to make an emergency landing, we will give any assistance needed.” There was a sudden buzz of conversation, and he noted that some faces looked relieved, others blank or stubborn. What the heck, tell them the rest.
"Gentlemen!” he said again louder, and the room was still again. “You know that there has been speculation that the Soviets were going to go for a Moon landing on this trip. Well, we're not certain yet, but it seems likely that they will, and they'll be setting down here in the US after they do it. I know that you all have been working for years so an American will set foot on the Moon first. Well, I want
that to happen, too, but if the Soviets make it before us, we must consider how our children's children will see it. They'll remember it as the day a man landed on the Moon, not a Russian or an American, a man, and they'll ask what you were doing on that day. You will say that you remember, you were where you could help, and you did your part. That's what will matter.” He was silent for a moment. “Gentlemen, to your duties,” he said in a low voice that carried through the huge room. Mc Cauley walked over to the console where Butler, the man who had received the first message, was staring at an electronic clock. “How long, Bob?” he asked.
"Four, three, two, one...” the senior communications tech counted down. “Ready to broadcast, sir.” Butler handed Mc Cauley a headset, then looked at him questioningly. Mc Cauley pointed at the switch that would broadcast the conversation throughout the room, and Butler flipped it.
"This is Houston Mission control, over."
The answer came back a few seconds later through a crackle of static. “To Houston, this is Volkov of Soyuz 11. Please advise if assistance will be forthcoming."
"To Volkov, this is Mc Cauley of NASA mission control. The President wishes me to assure you that we will help in every way possible. Over."
Despite the growing interference as the craft went out of range, they could hear the relieved tone in the Russian's voice. “My friends Patsayev and Dobrovolski, and of course I myself, are grateful for your offer of hospitality. We will not be arriving for some days yet, so you will have a little time. We know the weather is nice in California, because we are looking at it right now, and we see only a few clouds."
"There are no clouds where you are going right now."
"Yes, but the weather there is not so good for a barbecue. Colder outside even than Siberia in winter."
"We promise a good barbecue as soon as you're safely down."
"This cheers us. We are bored with the food we have brought with us, and have heard that American steaks are the best. We will remain in contact. Thank you, or as we say, spasibo."
"You are welcome, gentlemen. Safe voyaging. Over."
There was a brief, unintelligible noise, then only a hiss of static. Mc Cauley put down the microphone and turned to the communications tech. “They're going for it,” he said to himself, then turned to the technician.
"Butler!"
"Sir."
"Please contact our tracking stations in Hawaii and Australia on secure lines. They'll be able to see them for a bit longer. Tell them I need to know about any change in the orbit of that Soyuz. Tell them to start right now."
"Yes, sir!"
Conley followed him back into his office.
"You're looking for a burn this soon?"
"If they're short enough on fuel and oxygen that they're talking to us in the first place, they're not going to waste what they have. It'll take them half an orbit for that little toy lander of theirs to separate and decelerate, so if they start the process now, it'll be almost on the ground the next time they're in radio range. I figure they'll want to do their broadcast in the afternoon, Moscow time, so they've got to drop their lunar module soon. I need to call Administrator Low now."
Just then, the phone rang. “Hmmm, seems that Administrator Low can calculate orbits too,” Conley observed. “Wouldn't have thunk it with him out of school so long.” Mc Cauley picked up the receiver and listened for a moment.
"Yes, sir, we told them we will give assistance. They said they won't be arriving for some days yet, so they evidently plan to come here after a landing attempt.” He listened for a moment. “They have? About time. Probably wanted to make sure the guys up there were okay before they admitted they were there in the first place. Yes, sir, I will. I anticipate that they'll broadcast about one thirty in the morning, my time. Yes, sir, I'll still be here. Yes, sir, I'll let you know if anything changes.” He hung up the phone and exhaled a long breath, the tension visibly draining out of him. “I think I'm actually getting used to the idea of calling the White House to brief the President."
"So what did they say this time?"
"News from Moscow. Premier Kosygin just confirmed that it's a manned mission, but didn't say anything about fuel shortages or emergency landings."
"So what's new? If they launched the thing and it went straight into the Marianas Trench, they'd call it an oceanography mission and claim it was a success."
"Hell of a way to run things."
"As opposed to dithering for a year while congressmen who flunked high school science tell us how to redesign our escape procedures?"
"I'm willing to bet that they've got dumber bureaucrats who have flunked worse science classes."
"They just know not to listen to them. Or to shoot them when they're wrong, which means they don't make that mistake twice."
"And now I'm beginning to think we should learn something from them."
"Nah, you really shouldn't start shooting people, in case it becomes a habit."
Their conversation was interrupted by a respectful knock at the open door, where the tall, crew cut communications officer was waiting respectfully.
"Honolulu reports a burn, sir. Timing is right for lunar module separation."
"Darn it, I didn't bet any money on this, when I probably could've gotten two to one. Another wasted opportunity,” mused Conley into the silence. Mc Cauley ignored him.
"That's as expected,” said Mc Cauley crisply. “Contact NASA Edwards in California and don't tell them why, but tell them to run a full dress drill of their search and rescue teams three days from now. And ... what's your name again?"
"Yeager, sir. Bill Yeager."
"You're ex-Navy.
"Ensign, sir."
"Sounds like you dealt with some dicey situations in Korea."
"A few, sir."
"And you were arguing with Butler over what to do about that distress call."
"Yes, sir."
"Why do you think you two disagree?"
"He's a Marine, sir."
"And?"
"They're trained to think they can beat anything, sir. Don't like it when they can't."
"And?"
"Spend a bit of time at sea, sir, and you know the ocean's bigger than anybody. Soldiers on opposite sides don't help each other, mariners do. Space is even bigger than the ocean."
Mc Cauley and Conley waited for a moment, but the tall man didn't say anything else. “Thank you, Mr. Yeager,” said Mc Cauley finally.
"Sir,” he responded, made a stiff turn, and walked away.
"I think you made a heap of points with that man when you said we had to help those Russkies,” observed Conley after he was gone. “You've gone from being his boss to being his commanding officer, and he respects that a lot more."
"We're civilians, Conley. I am his boss."
"We've sent people out to explore or die, Mac. Civilians don't do that much."
"True enough. Now it's their turn over in Moscow, but we're doing our bit. I was less certain about that than you were. Washington could have said no, and then they wouldn't have made the landing and you'd have lost your bet. I didn't want to help them myself, at first, but I'm glad we're doing it. Somehow when you've talked to someone, joked about having a barbecue with him, it all becomes less abstract."
"And it all comes down to you making the contact. Ironic, ain't it? If our side had a bird flying, Low would be standing here making sure it was him handling the communications, bossing everything, on television every day. Since the shot wasn't ours and we didn't expect to talk to anybody, Low gets to hear about everything secondhand. I wonder when he's just gonna tell you to route all calls to him, and he rolls in the TV cameras."
"Probably not long."
"I dunno. Come to think of it, this is a pretty weird situation, contact being not exactly official. He may like to keep it at one remove, so if it all goes wrong, he has somebody to blame it on."
"You've cheered me up so much by saying that."
"Well, now you get to figure out what to
do next."
"Yep, we do."
"We? I'm just a country boy who keeps this chair from gettin’ all dusty by sittin’ in it."
"So sit in it and tell me what you think we ought to do to get ready."
"How about asking the President to find some excuse to get the Army to do training in the California desert, so they're where we need them? Maybe explain it as emergency practice of some sort. They just had an earthquake in a place called Sylmar a few months ago, maybe they can practice in case another one comes along."
"Nah, they wouldn't call out the Army, they'd muster the National Guard for that. We'd have to go through the governor, and he's that actor that used to be on Death Valley Days. I can't remember his name, but he was pretty good in Bedtime for Bonzo."
"Reagan. Ronald Reagan. I liked him better in Cattle Queen of Montana. Forget him, those Hollywood people are too unreliable. See if you can find an excuse to get the Army out instead of the Guard. They just got a delivery of new choppers, and the next time you call the White House maybe you can ask them to schedule some training."
"The next time I call the White House,” mused Mc Cauley. “I had almost managed to forget for a minute that I could do that."
"I reckon anybody can call the White House. The difference is, when you do it, they pick up the phone."
The two men laughed for a minute, then Mc Cauley made a face like he'd eaten something sour.
"What is it, Mac?"
"I'm putting my career on the line to help three guys I've never met, and I've never even talked to two of them. And they're Soviets, and about to land on the Moon ahead of us."
"And, as you reminded a passel of folks out in that mission control center, they're people. Humans. From this planet, never mind which chunk of it. And sixty years ago the Soviet Union didn't exist, and sixty years from now something else might be there."
Mc Cauley was silent for a moment. “I've got to believe that something else will be there, because I don't want to believe their system can go on that long. Turning a country into a cage."
Analog SFF, January-February 2009 Page 13