…In order to…secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity…
It hadn’t happened.
Tom Jefferson had lost to the federalists, and his ideals had been sacrificed to Hamilton’s notion of an oppressive central government. The colonials had exchanged one set of chains for another. But because the second set was emblazoned with an eagle, they hadn’t noticed.
“Gentlemen,” said the colonel, winding down his remarks and wanting to send them home with something to think about, “I’d like to talk with you for a moment about something other than the exercise.” He drew himself to his full height. “As you’re aware, last night was a disaster for the dictators. The people of this nation have finally seen their government for what it is, and the potential for revolt is everywhere. All that’s needed now is a spark.
“Be aware that I’ve been in touch with our brothers-in-arms around the state and in other parts of the country. We’re almost ready to move. When the moment comes, and I can tell you that it’s very close, we’ll be ready to seize the power brokers and give the nation back to the real Americans.”
They applauded, assured him they were with him, and went home. Afterward he sat alone in his kitchen and listened to the lazy hum of insects.
The horse is prepared against the day of battle. But when, O Lord? When?
7.
NEWSNET. 12:30 P.M. UPDATE
(Click for details.)
POPULATIONS IN FLIGHT AROUND WORLD
Did Experts Underestimate Comet Fallout?
Refugees Overwhelm Resources Everywhere
AMERICAS HIT HARD
Western Hemisphere In Direct Line Of Explosion
Fatalities Expected To Reach Three Million
Scientists Say Worst May Be Over
But Some Still Fret About “Possum”
X-RAY SURVEY: MOON HAS BROKEN UP
Astronomers: Most Large Fragments Pose No Danger
Will Earth Eventually Get Rings?
TOMIKO HARRINGTON REPORTED IN HIDING
Drive-By Shootings, Death Threats For Comet’s Discoverer
HASKELL SWORN IN AS 47TH PRESIDENT
New Chief Executive Adrift In Space
But Not In Danger, Says Administration
CHILE SAVES MANY BY MOVING THEM TO MOUNTAINS
Anderos: “Never Believed Happy Talk From U.S.”
POPE LEADS THOUSANDS IN PRAYER AT ST. PETER’S
Calls For Unified Relief Effort
GUNMAN KILLS ELEVEN IN MACAO SCHOOLYARD, THEN SHOOTS SELF
Left Note: Wanted To Save Children From “End of World”
“Everybody Liked Him,” Say Neighbors
REPORTS OF DAMAGE BY MOON “PEBBLES”
Golfball-Sized Objects Still Pack Wallop
Several Killed, Cars And Houses Wrecked
GIANT WAVES DECIMATE CARIBBEAN
Few Survivors At Nassau, St. Lucia
PRESIDENT DOES SPACEWALK TO RESCUE MOONBUS
Haskell Wears Home-Made Suit Outside
IRS WILL EXTEND TAX DEADLINE ONE WEEK
Transportation, Communication Difficulties Cited
Micro Passenger Cabin. 12:38 P.M.
Saber’s voice, speaking through the intercom, was cool and detached: “We’ve used the last of our fuel,” she said. “Tank’s empty.”
Morley looked across at the chaplain. “What happens if we have to get out of the way of one of those rocks?”
“Splat, I guess,” said Pinnacle.
Morley got up and looked down at Charlie. “I’m going to file a report,” he said. He and the president had reached agreement on what might be broadcast and what demanded discretion. All of the president’s calls, for example, were off-limits.
“Okay,” said Charlie. “Go ahead. But add that there’s no immediate danger.”
“Mr. President, that takes the bite out of the story.”
“Not at all, Keith. I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell you how to do your job, but understatement will jack up the drama.”
Keith grinned. “You’re a good politician. But I don’t think you’d make it in my profession.”
C-SPAN SUNDAY JOURNAL 1:07 P.M.
Host: Cleveland Samers; Guest: Senator Audrey Belmont (R-NJ).
Somers: Go ahead, Caller.
First Caller: I live in Kokomo. North of Indianapolis. And I have a question for Senator Belmont.
Somers: Okay.
First Caller: They were saying on the television this morning that the damage in your state, Senator, is going to be up in the billions.
Belmont: That appears to be true, Caller.
First Caller: And that’s only New Jersey. The whole East Coast is wrecked. For that matter, most of both coasts is wrecked. Did you see California? It’s just a bunch of islands.
Somers: I saw California. My understanding is that the water will go away on its own.
First Caller: Well, the damage sure as hell isn’t going to go away on its own. We’re talking about rebuilding. My question is, where’s the money going to come from? Because I can just see what’s going to happen. The president’s going to declare both coasts emergency areas and the government’s going to pay for it. Which is to say, the taxpayers will pick up the tab. Like always.
Somers: Okay, Caller. We’ve got the question: Thanks. Senator?
Belmont: I think the caller means the stricken areas will be declared disaster areas. But yes, of course, federal funds will be used to help stave off the worst effects of what happened last night. I’m sure the caller doesn’t think we should just leave several million people on the road with no place to turn for help.
Somers: We have another caller. Go ahead, please.
Second Caller: Hello?
Somers: Yes? You’re on.
Second Caller: Am I on?
Somers: Yes, you are.
Second Caller: I was listening to the last caller. And he’s absolutely right. I live in Grand Island. In Nebraska. Why should my taxes go up to rebuild New York and Miami? I think we should secede, that’s what I think. It’s the only way to save the country.
Somers: Senator?
Belmont: I don’t want to offend anyone, Cleveland, but if there’s an attitude that guarantees this nation will go down the drain, I think we’ve just heard it.
Micro Passenger Cabin. 1:32 P.M.
The passengers heard the PA system click on, and heard their pilot’s voice. “This is Saber. We are now at our closest approach to Earth, traveling at 11.7 kilometers per second. The Lowell is ahead of us, gradually accelerating to our velocity. We will rendezvous with them at about four.”
109th Airlift Group, Scotia, New York. 1:31 P.M.
The big army chopper that had brought them from Manhattan skirted the airfield and descended on a bare field behind a hangar. It blew up a cloud of dust and the pilot cut the engine. The blades slowed and drooped. Marilyn, who’d never been in a helicopter before and didn’t like planes all that much anyhow, was grateful they were on the ground.
Almost all of the people on the aircraft were from Louise’s party. They looked sodden and tired and lost. Larry sat beside her and squeezed her hand while they waited for the hatch to open. “When do you think we’ll get home again?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “Probably only a few days. The water should go down pretty quick. And our stuff’ll be okay, as long as they keep the looters out. That’s what worries me.”
Louise was sitting directly across from them. She’d changed into a woolen shirt and jeans, and had contributed clothes to several of the women. “I doubt there are many live looters left,” she said. “But I don’t think we’ll be going back for a while. Place like Manhattan….” She shook her head. “I don’t want to be downbeat or anything, but there’re going to be major health problems. We’ll be lucky if we’re home by the fourth of July.”
“Goddam, Louise,” said a balding little economist near the door, “you sure know how to give a party.”
That bro
ught some hollow laughs. Marilyn didn’t join in.
She’d changed. She wondered what the little boy’s name was. What his mother had thought when Marilyn closed the door.
Something else had happened: She felt closer to Larry than she had at any time during, or before, their marriage. He’d been taking her for granted for a long time, but that had stopped last night. Maybe it wouldn’t last, but she felt as if she had her husband—her old boyfriend—back again.
The hatch opened to reveal two female soldiers in neatly pressed khakis. Marilyn looked past them and saw crowds of dazed people being shepherded between vehicles and buildings. Some were sitting on the ground.
One of the women wore a sergeant’s stripes and carried a clipboard. The other was barely eighteen.
“Welcome to Scotia,” said the sergeant. “The pilot tells us that nobody here has any injuries. Is that correct? Anybody hurt? No? Good.
“We’ll start unloading over here on my left. Please be careful; it’s a long step down. And I’d appreciate it if you’d give your card to Private Turner here.” The pilot had distributed yellow data cards on which they’d printed their names and other personal information. “Please note the long gray building behind me. We’ll go over there. You’ll be able to get a sandwich and some soft drinks or coffee. I wish we could provide a hot meal but we just don’t have the capability. Not for so many people.
“You’ve got about an hour before your next flight leaves. We’ll make an announcement. This is the seven-fourteen group. Can you remember that?”
“Excuse me,” one of the passengers broke in. “You’re putting us on another plane?”
Several people now began to talk at once. The sergeant held up a hand and waited. When they’d quieted, she continued: “I’m sorry, folks. Truth is, we’re a little crowded here right now. We’re asking for your cooperation. And your patience. We’ll move you out and get you to a permanent relocation facility as quickly as we can.”
“Where’s that?” asked one of the women. “Where are we going?”
She consulted her clipboard. “Bismarck.”
“Bismarck?” whispered Larry. “Where’s Bismarck?”
“North Dakota,” said Marilyn. She got up and started for the exit. “That might not be so bad. It’s a long way from the ocean.”
8.
SSTO Arlington Passenger Cabin. 2:28 P.M.
In its headlong flight, the Micro had caught up with and passed Arlington. Andrea had not been aware of it when it happened. But she was delighted, a few hours later, to see the gleaming, counter-rotating wheels of Skyport. Like virtually everyone else on the spacecraft, she felt lucky to be alive. Nevertheless, the overall mood was somber. The death of friends and colleagues on the lost flight, and fears for family and friends at home, weighed heavily on the passengers. They were also tired, sweaty, weary of plastic food, still frightened. It was, after all, no small thing to look out the window and see a rock the size of a small garage whistle past.
Debris now might come from any angle. The pilot explained that much of the material that had been blasted off the surface of the Moon had gone into orbit. It would, he added, probably constitute a navigational hazard for a long time to come. The unspoken implication, in Andrea’s mind, was that transatmospheric flights might be discontinued.
Among those who’d been on the missing spacecraft were several close friends, a former lover, her favorite bridge partner, most of her work crew, and God knew who else. She’d find out when they were off the plane and she could get a look at the passenger manifest. Right now nobody was saying anything official.
They slipped nose-first into their cradle. The bulkheads moved past and steam leaked out of gargantuan fittings. People behind long observation panels bent over consoles and talked into microphones. The bulkheads slowed, and there was a mild bump.
“This is Captain Culver.” The pilot sounded as if he’d just concluded a routine flight. “Please remain in your seats until the light has gone off.” He paused. “We were glad to be able to assist you, and I want to thank you for your cooperation during a difficult flight,” The cabin lights blinked. There’ll be representatives of the Lunar Transport Authority waiting in the deplaning section to answer any questions you might have.”
A minute later the warning sign went out. Andrea unbuckled and watched her fellow passengers get up.
They took her name as she went down the ramp, gave her some clothes, and assigned a room. She asked if it would be possible to get a passenger manifest for the lost flight. “Sorry,” a woman in an emerald LTA jacket said. “They’re not available yet.” Then they asked whether she felt all right and did she want to talk to a counselor?
Andrea declined and went looking for her room. It was on B deck in an area usually reserved for flight crews. It had a gorgeous view of Earth, which was sunlit and peaceful and moving gradually from right to left across her picture window. She studied it for a minute or so, taking strength from it. Then she stepped but of her clothes and turned on the scrubbers. Ten minutes later, feeling clean again, she collapsed naked on the bed, grateful for the chance to stretch out. But despite her weariness, sleep wouldn’t come.
She gave up after a while and went down to the main promenade to look for food. Almost all the shops were shut down. But there were a couple of restaurants. She selected Mo’s, which was decorated heavily with a Three Stooges motif.
It was crowded. She looked around for familiar faces, saw a few from the plane, but settled alone into the only available table. A television mounted over a central bar carried news reports from groundside. Someone was talking about a memorial service for Henry Kolladner. It struck her that the president of the U.S. had died and she’d scarcely noticed.
She studied the menu, decided she wasn’t really hungry but just wanted to chew on something that wasn’t space-plane fare. Toast and coffee looked good. She punched in her selection and propped her chin in her hands. The tears she’d kept at bay for so many hours dribbled down her cheeks.
Mo’s was too public a place to come apart, so she fought down the crying jag that threatened to erupt. Then a woman In a NASA jumpsuit was looking down at her.
“Hi,” she said. “Mind if we share?”
She had dark hair, alert brown eyes, and an amiable expression that immediately changed to concern when she got a good look at Andrea. “You okay?” she asked.
Andrea sniffled, wiped her nose, and smiled. “I’m sorry. Yes, please. Of course, sit down.”
The woman eased into a chair. “Lose somebody?” she asked carefully.
Andrea nodded and felt the tears come with a rush.
“Let it go,” the woman said. “It’s okay.” She took Andrea’s wrist, squeezed it reassuringly, “I’m Tory Clark,” she said when the storm subsided. “I work at the Orbital Lab.”
“Physics?”
“Astronomy.”
Andrea nodded. “Must be an exciting time for you.” She saw the sudden bleakness in the other woman’s expression. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s all right. It’s been hard on everybody.”
Andrea felt as if she were moving through a dream. “I’m Andrea Bellwether.” She extended her hand and smiled.
“Famous name.” Tory smiled back.
Andrea nodded. “He was my father.”
“Oh.” Tory bit down her embarrassment. “Open mouth, insert,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
They sat watching while an attendant brought two glasses and filled them with water. “Listen,” Tory said, looking at the menu, “I think I need a real drink. How about you? My treat.”
AstroLab. 3:11 P.M.
Cynthia Murray had been the director at Kitt Peak for six years. She’d taken a leave of absence and come to the AstroLab to work with Feinberg on the effort to map cosmic directionality. And, more significantly, to understand it. She’d already established a reputation for her work in
macrogalactic structures, and now, like everyone else in the field, had been diverted by events into the Possum watch. And specifically into tracking POSIM-38.
Cynthia had gone through five husbands. One had died; the others had grown wearisome for one reason or another. The only passions Cynthia had were for her two daughters (by the second and fourth spouses) and for the galaxies. That was, of course, a shortcoming in the eyes of most men, even other astronomers. But she couldn’t help it, didn’t want to help it, and had finally accepted the fact that she was simply not meant to be somebody’s wife.
She recognized a mirror image of sorts in Feinberg except that he was lonely, although he’d never admit it. She, on the other hand, had felt alone only during those hours she was forced to spend in domestic harness, away from the telescopes.
Cynthia had been drinking coffee and watching the Possum after it struggled out of the atmosphere. Its velocity had diminished considerably, and of course it had emerged with a new heading. It had lost about five percent of its mass during passage.
Her display extended Possum’s trajectory out over a long narrow arc, and then brought it back.
It was still too early to be sure. But her instincts told her that Feinberg was going to be right. Again.
She finished her coffee, sighed, and reached for the phone.
AstroLab. 3:36 P.M.
Feinberg sat in his-white Fleetwood under some trees (a contractor was pouring blacktop in the parking lot), looking up at the AstroLab. The building was a flat swirl of steel and glass, two encircling wings emanating from a crosspiece. At night, when the light was favorable, it resembled an SBa, a barred spiral galaxy. Now, in the middle of the afternoon, this afternoon, it looked vaguely like an oversized bat hiding from the daylight. He did not want to go inside. He’d hoped the Possum would just go away, had hoped the run through the atmosphere would not slow it down excessively, would give it a decent trajectory. So he’d pushed it away from his thoughts, much as he’d have liked to push it away from the planet, and gone home to sleep. To hide from it, knowing that if things did go as he expected, Cynthia would call.
Moonfall Page 40