Earle met the President’s gaze evenly. “God help us, Mr. President, if they don’t work, period.” He turned to leave.
“One more thing, Willy.”
The Science Advisor paused. “Yes, sir?” From the wall, Andrew Jackson seemed to be watching him intently.
“If this doesn’t come off as planned, we could get the blame for whatever angle of approach the object eventually takes.”
“I know that, sir. This is an unprecedented situation. There are no guarantees. The only thing we know for certain is that if we don’t do something, and do it quickly, the asteroid will eventually strike the surface. It’s only a question of where, and of how many will die.”
Fraser nodded. “Then you’d better get going. You have people you need to talk to, and I have to make some phone calls.”
“Right, Mr. President.” Earle left the Chief Executive reaching for one of the three telephones on his desk. It was the direct line to Moscow. Not that it mattered what he and President Kubiltov said to each other. All that mattered now was setting off the right-size packages in the proper places on the surface of a fast-moving rock the size of a small Iowa town.
The immediate priority was finding the best people to deliver those packages.
Chapter 2
It was Low’s favorite place in the city. Down by the water, close to where the incomparable bridge spanned the inconceivable crack in the exquisitely beautiful coastal mountains. To impoverished immigrants from Asia and the Pacific Basin, it doubtless still was a golden gate. To the residents of Marin County, it was a shorter commute. To tourists from around the country and around the world, the ultimate souvenir picture.
Today the entire length was visible, devoid of mist. That would disappoint the tourists, he knew. More than a few expected the fog to perform on cue, as if the city had giant fog machines installed outside the gate to create just the right photo-op when the tour boats were cruising by.
Fog or not, Low loved the bridge. There was no more gracile public structure in the United States. Simple and functional, the Taj Mahal of the Far West. He never tired of looking at it.
Off to his right, the Alcatraz boat was just leaving. A covey of gulls swooped low in search of edible debris. Two harangued him raucously.
He held up the empty sack from the fast-food restaurant. “Sorry, guys. No more French fries. Try something radical. Go look for fish.” Thoroughly urbanized, the gulls refused to believe him. They settled on a nearby wave-washed rock and eyed him petulantly, in spite of the fact that he’d finished his meal twenty minutes earlier. He didn’t blame the gulls. French fries were an easier catch than tuna fry.
There weren’t many people out on the point today. Besides himself, he’d seen only two couples. The point was inherently romantic, a fine place to smooch. Cold as it was, with the wind skipping in past the Farallons, you naturally gravitated to your companion in search of body heat. In contrast, Low was alone, unless one counted the fish and the crabs, the plovers and the gulls.
After morning rush hour, the bridge quieted down. He could see the first wall of fog, hovering well outside the gate, waiting for the slight change in temperature that would allow it to roll in and smother bay and city. That business about creeping in on little cat’s feet was baloney, Low knew. The fog was an eager opportunist, charging forward to fill every crack and crevice the instant it was meteorologically permissible.
He settled back in his heavy coat, altogether comfortable with his solitude and cholesterol-laden lunch. He did not expect to be disturbed.
That’s when he saw a familiar face coming toward him. Harry Page. The NASA representative looked the same as he had the last time they’d met, at the conclusion of some inane official function. Low’s last official function. How long ago had that been? Well over a year, anyway.
Now he was here, picking his way awkwardly over the rocks, an anxious expression on his wide, bearded face. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the afternoon. It presaged formal conversation, which Low wanted no part of.
He could get up quickly, pretend he didn’t see the visitor, and make a dash for his car. Page could never catch him. But Low knew there would be another car somewhere up above, on the access road, probably parked right next to his own. A featureless black or white, wholly functional government car. There would be a driver waiting for Page, and perhaps an assistant.
Resignedly, he wondered what Harry wanted. It must be important for them to send him all the way out here instead of communicating by phone or fax. Important enough to disturb his retirement. He consoled himself a little with the knowledge that Page probably wasn’t looking forward to the encounter either.
Then it was too late to attempt a graceful exit, because the NASA rep was waving to him and calling his name. Sensing coming awkwardness, the gulls took flight, deciding to try their luck down by the wharf.
An indifferent Low slipped the crumpled, greasy bag into a jacket pocket. It was the kind of sloppiness that would never have been tolerated on a shuttle mission, and he luxuriated in it, delighting in his Earth-bound status. He had an uneasy sensation that it was about to be disturbed.
“Boston!” Page waved again, with studied enthusiasm. “How ya doin’, Boz?”
“I’m fine, Harry. Pull up a rock.” Page did his best, and Low watched him squirm uncomfortably. “What brings you out to the edge of the continent?” Low already knew the answer: he waited to hear the corollary.
Page winced. The rocks didn’t suit him. Though the two men were about the same age, what was left of the NASA rep’s hair was streaked with gray. Low always believed the radiation in Washington was more damaging than any to be encountered in space.
“Partly the food, Boz. I had breakfast down on Fisherman’s Wharf this morning. Dungeness crab omelet. Can’t get that inside the Beltway.”
Riding high in the water, a Liberian-registered container ship was entering the gate, steaming smoothly beneath the bridge. On its way to pick up cargo bound for Yokohama, Low thought. Or Singapore, or Djakarta. He sighed. There was no escape there either. The bureaucrats had conquered the planet, and you had to coexist with them no matter where you lived.
“How long you been looking for me?”
“Since then. I was told this was one of your favorite places.” His smile, at least, seemed sincere. “We’ve missed you, Boston. The program misses you. I still don’t understand why you didn’t take that administrative position down in Houston. I’ll never be offered that kind of salary if I live to be ninety.”
“Same reason I opted out of the whole program, Harry.” Picking up a small pebble, he chucked it bayward. It struck the water with a satisfying splook. “I didn’t know what I wanted next, but I knew I wanted out.”
Page squinted at the place where the thrusting bridge pierced the underside of Marin. Sunlight ricocheted off the chilly water, harder on his blue eyes than on Low’s.
“You heard about the rock?”
Low made a noncommittal noise. “Anybody who hasn’t?”
Page chuckled. “Some rice farmer in Bangladesh, maybe, or a Mongol family out on the steppe. Everybody’s heard about the rock. You see people all the time, just stopping to stare up at the sky. Wondering if it’s going to come down near them. Wondering if it’s going to come down on them.”
Low didn’t reply. He was as guilty as anyone else. Especially at night, when you could see it pass overhead. Knowing that with each pass it was sinking a little lower, coming a little nearer. Vindication at last for Chicken Little.
A green crab was ensconced on the moist sand by his feet, using one claw to shove food into its mouthparts like a miner panning for gold. Its body was the size of a silver dollar.
“Anybody ever figure out how the whole astronomical establishment managed to miss its approach?” he heard himself asking.
“Not yet.” Page didn’t see the crab. Like most of his kind, Page rarely took the time to look down and see what was happening right at his feet. “They’re still arguing about it. We’re just damn lucky it went into an elliptical instead of coming straight down on top of Saint Louis, or something. At least this way we have a little time to try and do something about it.”
“Damn right about that.” Low continued to watch the crab. Unlike him, it was perfectly suited to its profession.
“You know that the rock’s in a rapidly decaying orbit.”
“I’d heard.” Low heaved another pebble waterward. A scavenging gull darted toward it, veered off when she saw it wasn’t an edible. Her rowdy cry was reproaching. Behind the two men, a young couple in dark jackets were wrapped up in each other, oblivious to gulls, bridge, water, city, and the world in general. Low envied them.