Then they were heading up, toward the asteroid, the digger supported between them.
CHAPTER 5
They had no trouble securing it to the stony surface, once Brink had paused long enough to do a headstand and caress the rock with both hands. They waited while the machine did its job quickly and efficiently, excavating a sure slot for the explosive. Drifting down to a second preselected location on the surface, they repeated the sequence before starting back to the shuttle.
Once the unit had been restowed and locked down, they removed two remarkably small packets from a thickly padded container and retraced their path. Each package was roughly the size and shape of a scuba diver’s tank. Working smoothly together, they emplaced the first in its waiting hole, then the second. Shaped charges, each was designed to thrust most of its energy away from the body of the asteroid, giving it a forceful shove without shattering the whole into dangerous fragments.
Despite the thousands of simulations, Low knew there was always the chance that the computers and their programmers had overlooked something, knew that disaster of varying magnitude was always a latent possibility. In which event he might as well stay in orbit and never return to the ground. No one had yet lynched an astronaut, he assured himself coolly, but there could always be a first time.
Am I the fatalist everyone claims, he found himself wondering? He shrugged it off. This was neither the time nor the place for personal introspection. He could do worse than reflect on the confidence everyone else seemed to have in him.
Brink worked confidently and efficiently, with nary a wasted move or gesture. Only in the scientist’s eyes was there any indication that he was thinking about anything other than the task at hand. Low knew the other man was counting the minutes until he could return to the asteroid and commence his studies. He envied him his enthusiasm. That was a condition Low, too, had once suffered from, but had subsequently lost. He had to admit he wouldn’t mind finding it again.
He doubted he’d locate it on the visitor, though. To Brink it was the culmination of all his dreams, a mile-wide Christmas present. To Low it was … a rock. No trees, no crabs, no seals, no crying gulls, no blue sky … he had to smile. Gray sky, anyway, this time of year. But better than black. He loved the fog. It shut out the night sky and kept the Earth close.
Here I am wondering if he’s being diverted and I’m going on like a bad poet. Deliberately, he made himself focus on securing the last of their gear.
Then they were back in the airlock, holding while the shuttle breathed on them, waiting for pressure to equalize. It was a relief to reenter the main cabin. Miles was waiting to help them.
“You all right, Ludger?” he asked as soon as their helmets were off and they could once more speak without the aid of transmitters.
Despite the best efforts of his suit systems, the scientist was sweating heavily. “I’m fine, Commander, danke. I think we have done our work well.” He glanced at a wall chronometer. “We are easily within the assigned time parameters.” As he began to slip out of the suit, he added, “Did you know, Commander Low, that I have an unconscionable fear of heights?”
Low blinked. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“It stems from when I was six. My father dragged the family to the top of Koln cathedral. I was forced to ‘enjoy’ the view. It is a fear that has been with me ever since, but a simple one to defeat. You simply do not look down. Up here, of course, every way is down. Interestingly it confuses the fear as well as the mind.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.” Low stepped out of his suit and pushed off forward. “How’re things on the ground?”
“Houston’s running final checkout on your delivery.” Borden was more subdued than usual. “Site-positioning lines up. You were off by less than half a meter on both locations.”
“Naturally.” Brink was mopping his face with a special absorbent towel.
“What happens now?” Robbins was hovering nearby.
“As soon as Houston gives us the all-clear,” Borden told her, “we back off to a safe distance. Actually we’ll be dropping down and moving forward to a safe distance.”
“And then?”
“We wait. Houston will detonate the explosives. If everything goes as planned, the object’s orbit will be stabilized and it will stay with us instead of flying back out into space. At that point we’ll be able to rematch trajectories and hang with it for as many orbits as we’re cleared to do.”
She nodded wordlessly. A moment later the words “Well done” reached them from the ground, accompanied by the flutter of muted applause.
Low slid back into his seat. He knew he should be exhausted, but he was only anxious to finish the flight. “Everyone stabilize themselves, please. Ms. Rob … Maggie … I suggest you return to your seat and fasten your harness.”
Miles assisted the journalist and then positioned herself. Borden initiated the shuttle’s thrusters, and they dropped away from the asteroid. Soon it was once again no more than a dot in the distance, another unrecognizable point of light.
Technically it wasn’t part of the flight program, but Low found himself unable to resist the temptation. Burning a little extra thruster fuel, he pivoted the shuttle on its axis so that they were racing backward around the planet. The attitude adjustment also left them facing the object of their recent attention.
Not even Borden was inclined to joke as the countdown crackled up to them from the ground. They had moved to what was considered a more than safe distance, but still… what they were about to witness had never been tried before.
There came a distant flash, disappointingly subdued. Low fancied he saw two distinct flares even though he knew both charges were designed to go off simultaneously. They faded rapidly. There was of course no noise.
“That’s it?” Robbins strained for a better view.
“We’re a long ways off,” Low told her.
“A long ways,” Miles added.
“What happens next?”
“We wait.” Borden nudged a control. “We wait for several orbits until we find out if our little kick in the rockside did the trick. Find yourself something to do.”
It was during the interminable period that followed that Maggie Robbins proved herself an asset to the flight instead of simply another piece of cargo. While the others strove not to speculate on whether or not the mission had been a success or failure, and largely failed, Robbins was everywhere: shooting video, asking questions, experimenting with her weightless condition, and generally doing her utmost to keep her companions occupied. In such a tense environment even silly questions had the value of diversion.
Her persistent intrusions into shipboard routine were welcomed. Anything to keep from contemplating the consequences of failure.
Suppose the explosives had been inadequate? Or improperly positioned? What if a critical calculation had been wrong just enough, and even now the asteroid was dropping dangerously low into the atmosphere? What if…?
“Excuse me, Boston, but what does this do?”
He found himself trying to concentrate on her question, his depressing reverie broken. “That? There are multiple controls for operating the shuttle’s thrusters, but it’s still necessary for ground control to be able to override shipboard commands.”
“Why?” she inquired innocently. And while he patiently explained, images of disaster could not form in his mind.
She wanted to know how everything worked, what everything was for. When she finished with the instrumentation, she started in on their personal histories. What was it like growing up? Did they always want to he astronauts? What did their parents think of their youthful aspirations? Their friends, their lovers, their spouses? On and on, hour after hour, orbit after orbit, the questions coming so swiftly and exuberantly that the recipients did not have time to think about anything else. Did not have time to contemplate catastrophe.
It was only much later that Low was able to reflect on the insistent interrogation and realize that many of the queries were nothing more than rephrasings of questions already asked. Only then did it dawn on him that she’d known exactly what she was doing, using her interviewing skills to keep them from dwelling on the consequences of possible failure. It wasn’t journalism she had been practicing then; it was therapy.
The efficacy of a bug in the ear.
Borden was looking at him expectantly. “Houston calling, Commander.” Ken Borden hadn’t called Low “Commander” in years.
Low acknowledged. Within the cabin all was silence.
“Don’t recognize the voice.” He frowned, adjusted a control. “There’s a lot of interference.”
“Boston steps up to the plate,” the voice announced excitedly from the speaker. “Here’s the pitch … it’s a curve down the middle. Boston swings… it’s a hit! … a long drive, to deep left field! Kowalski’s going back, back, to the wall. He jumps … it’s over, it’s over! A home run for Boston! The fans are going wild!”