“Somewhere there’s a guy with a degree in food chemistry who’s devoted his life to cheese.” Low turned slightly in his seat. “Don’t you think so, Ludger?”
Behind him the scientist chuckled softly. “You are being irrelevant, Commander.”
“Wish I was.” Low gently caressed a small dial. He was a long way from the redwoods. A long ways from any woods. Dark and deep, he mused. “Stand by, everyone.”
“This is so exciting!” Robbins’s irrepressible enthusiasm bordered on gushing. Low hated gushing.
“Sure is.” Beside her, Cora Miles waited patiently, counting votes as she lay back in her seat. Until they were on the job, there was little for her to do. She’d already rehearsed her work, not to mention suitable sound bites for the media.
Low was glad his copilot and Mission Control specialist were so outgoing. Like fin whales confronting a shoal of krill, they’d filter out the reporters before they could reach him. To Low, lack of attention was a blessing, not an omission.
“Everyone okay back there? Ms. Robbins?”
“Fine, just fine, Commander.” Other than a slight tightness in her voice, she seemed to be doing well, he decided. Probably too busy concocting opening lines for her initial report to deal with the reality of what they were about to do. “I am having trouble with something, though.”
They were very near to liftoff. Low’s response was sharp with concern. “What is it, Ms. Robbins? We don’t have much time.”
“This won’t take much time.” He felt her staring at him. “If you don’t stop calling me ‘Ms. Robbins’ and start calling me Maggie I’m going to open all my reports that quote you thusly: ‘The unbendingly formal and stuffy Commander Low said today …’.”
“Suit yourself… Maggie.” In his ear the voice of Mission Control was beginning the ritual of counting down the remaining seconds verbally. It was an anachronism from the early days of spaceflight, turgid and melodramatic. No one had suggested doing away with it. Doing so would have sent the public-relations people ballistic.
There was something else he wanted to tell her, but the cheery Borden stole his speaking space. “Don’t sweat it, Maggie. I’ve been on roller coasters that throw you around worse.”
Me too, Low thought, but none with the potential to blow me to bits.
Then there were only seconds left, too few and too much to do in them, and finally not even that. A great roar, more vibration than sound, began beneath and behind them. Too overwhelming to allow for casual conversation or nervous jokes, it rose in volume until it dominated the universe.
Then they were moving, the entire complex cylindrical skyscraper rising from its foundations and reaching, clawing at the sky. Slowly at first, accelerating steadily, kept from tumbling by patient internal gyros and high-speed programs, hearing none of the cheers that accompanied their Promethean ascent, they rose into the blue as had dozens before them.
Their destination was similar but their goals very different. This time they were going not to visit the cosmos but to interact with a piece of it.
Low’s entire body was vibrating like a violin string as he monitored a dozen, a hundred readouts. Beside him, Borden had begun to whistle softly. Low recognized the wordless march from the last movement of Brian’s Gothic symphony. Subsequent to ignition and in defiance of her stubborn sophistication, Maggie Robbins had uttered a gasp of astonishment. She was quiet now, and Low had no time to spare to check on whether she was gaping in amazement or had lapsed into unconsciousness. Coddling would have to wait until the engines had finished firing.
No matter how much they tried to prepare you for it, no simulation could really come close to duplicating the sensation of rising atop that thundering spire of metal and plastic and ceramic alloy, a darkening sky rushing at you and burning hell at your back. The Hand was on him now, pressing against his face and chest and lower body, shoving him back into his chair, trying to keep him from doing his job. It was a rough caress, invited and familiar. Before his eyes, light blue gave way to navy, then purple, fading, like the end of a film, to black.
The stars came out, and he did not rejoice in their reacquaintance.
Though to all outward appearances he was as calm and at ease as any tourist on the rear deck of a cruise ship, he did not truly begin to relax until the two massive solid-fuel boosters had been jettisoned and the main engine had fully ignited. The bomb at his backside had been reduced in strength but not defused.
“Burn, you sonuvabitch, burn!” he murmured to himself. In the increasing absence of atmosphere, the main engine complied softly, whispering fire. Beneath his determined, active gaze the shuttle’s instruments, like so many tiny electronic gnomes, peered back at him, reeking of normalcy. He relaxed a little more.
Behind him, Brink was muttering aloud in German. Low caught a few words but was too busy to go hunting for more. For the first time since he’d made her acquaintance, Robbins was silent. Whether she was awed or unconscious, it made no difference to him. Well, maybe a little, he chided himself. He was being too hard on her. Miles would be resting patiently, waiting for orbital insertion before she could start checking out the shuttle’s arm. Borden had stopped whistling and was reciting a poem that began, “There was a young lady from Mars, whose husband got lost in the stars.”
Low had heard it before. His copilot was behaving normally, as was the ship. To others normal might translate as “dull.” To Low it was pure bliss. Let others “Challenge the heavens, and assail the affrighted stars!” as the quote went. Give him monotony and routine and he was a happy camper.
Mission Control barked congratulations, which Low let the effusive Borden acknowledge. Follow-ups and checkouts continued unbroken. There was no room on a shuttle flight for anything less than perfection. At least there was no room for it on a flight commanded by Boston Low.
For the first time since liftoff he allowed himself to think about their cargo. Three small, unprepossessing metal containers, any one of which was capable of vaporizing the shuttle and its occupants as instantaneously and thoroughly as a soap bubble in a blast furnace. Two had been designated for use, with the third as backup. If their initial efforts proved successful, it would be disarmed, taken apart, and jettisoned.
Far below, the President was accepting congratulations and well-wishes from representatives of the media, friends, political allies, and assorted sycophants. He smiled and waved, accepting as his due the implication that he had organized the mission, chosen the personnel, scripted their individual tasks, and built the shuttle in his backyard out of spare parts.
It all went with the political territory, Earle knew. If something went well, you could claim all the credit. If it failed, you blamed Congress, or NASA, or international terrorists. Standing on the platform watching lesser lights swarm about the Chief Executive, he was glad of his own comparative anonymity and privacy. He wouldn’t have been President had the powers that be begged him to take the job, even if it came with all the money and power in the world. Not even billionaires could buy privacy, far less ranking politicians.
Someone would have to be unrelievedly ambitious to want the post, he mused. Or incredibly bored.
Then the media, having fed and been sated, moved off in search of nourishing sound bites elsewhere, herded along by snapping assistants. The President glanced around and, spotting Earle, started in his direction. At his approach the Science Advisor struggled to wrench his gaze back from the sweeping window, from the place in the sky where a tiny speck was on the verge of vanishing.
Fraser was relaxed and at ease. “Well, Willy, if everything goes as well as the launch, we’ll all be heroes by the middle of next week. If not”—he shrugged philosophically—”we still have time to try again. You know that the Independence is being readied for backup and a crew is being briefed.”
“Yes, sir.” It was no secret. The President was just making conversation. “As to trying again, that depends.”
The Chief Executive made a face. “Depends? What are you talking about, Willy? What could happen? I’ve been assured that the explosives onboard the Atlantis aren’t powerful enough to break up the asteroid.”
“I know, sir.” Earle forced a smile. “You know me. I’m just a worrier. I’m paid to worry. There’s very little chance of anything going seriously wrong. It’s just that nothing like this has ever been attempted before, and reality has a way of pitching out surprises that haven’t been anticipated in the simulations.”
The President clapped a friendly hand on the older man’s shoulder and stared out the window, searching the sky for that which had already disappeared from sight. “One thing you learn in politics is not to anticipate trouble, Willy.”