"We know the ambiance on the bus isn't what any of us are accustomed to, or what we would like to make available, and I regret to announce there are no flight attendants. One of us will be along after we've gotten under way to see if we can do anything to make your trip more comfortable. I'll let you know when we're ready to leave."
Andrea closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 1:31 P.M.
"This is Frances Picarno in Rome, reporting from outside the Vatican. It's early evening here, Bruce, and a huge crowd has gathered at St. Peter's to pray. The pope is expected to appear momentarily at his third-floor balcony."
"Frances, what's the mood there?"
"Somber. They're very quiet. I could almost say frightened. But these are believers, and they feel very much in the hands of their Creator tonight.
"Vatican officials have told us that Innocent will do what he can to reassure everyone. This couldn't have come at a worse time for the pontiff, as we all know. He has been in failing health for the past year, and his doctors have apparently advised against his appearance here this evening. But this pope, the People's Pope, is said to be quite concerned, and-wait a minute, Bruce. There he is now…"
2.
Moonbase, Grissom Country. 1:32 P.M.
Haskell was just returning to his quarters when his cell phone jingled.
"Charlie?" Evelyn's voice. "I'm glad you're there. I thought I was going to get the recorder again."
"I was out touring the facility, Evelyn. Seemed like the right time. What's going on?"
"Some good news. We might have a chance to get out of here."
"Wonderful. I knew somebody'd come up with something."
"The chances probably aren't very good."
"What's the plan?"
"One of the buses is going to come back for us tonight. Take us off. But it's strictly last-minute stuff."
"Anything's better than just sitting here. Tell the pilot I said thanks." He felt weak with relief. Moonbase Spaceport. 1:35 P.M.
Bigfoot had struggled with his conscience since the incident with the valves. It was he, after all, who had checked the fuel lines when Tony first reported a suspected leak. He'd found nothing, because he'd taken Tony at his word and looked for a leak and nothing else. In his own defense, he thought, finding the improper valve would not have been simply a matter of opening the manifold and looking. Both sizes of valves were identical in external appearance. He would have had to remove each unit and inspect it. And, of course, they'd been under extreme time pressure.
But now, despite the fact that he'd put himself at risk (or maybe because of it), he was feeling good again. Maybe they could pull it off.
It didn't occur to him that he wasn't the only person carrying a burden of guilt. Elias Tobin, the engineer who'd installed the wrong valve, left a note saying he was sorry, and took an overdose of tranquilizers. He survived because a worried friend came by to check on him. Later Elias asked to stay with the Chandler group, but Jack refused the offer when a therapist gave his opinion that Tobin was incapable of making a rational decision.
They'd put him on a moonbus at about the time Evelyn was talking to the vice president. Moonbase, Director's Office. 1:57 P.M.
Chandler looked across the desk at Angela Hawkworth. "We've got another volunteer," he said. "So you're off the hook. You'll be on a flight later this afternoon. See Susan about the details."
She avoided his gaze. "Jack," she said, "I'm sorry-"
"It's okay." She was the last of the people Evelyn had dragooned.
"I was willing to stay. You know that."
"I know."
She rose, anxious to be away before something changed. "Who is it?"
"Caparatti. We're going to put everybody in a bus and make a run for it. They need Caparatti to take care of the details, so he's staying on."
She nodded and started to back away. "I'd have stayed."
"It's okay, Angela. Everyone knows that." Carlisle, Pennsylvania. 2:15 P.M.
Claire eased the truck under a line of elms and parked outside a restored turn-of-the-century country home. It had broad lawns and a driveway that curved around the house. The air was colder here than it had been in South Jersey, and smoke was coming out of the chimney. There was a backboard mounted over the garage door and a swing set was just visible in back.
Archie climbed down, feeling stiff and unclean and not really presentable. But the occupants were already at the front door: a middle-aged woman and someone else, an older man, behind her. Walter's lodge buddies, who were opening their home to two of Walter's employees.
The woman came out, studied them for a few moments, and started in their direction. Archie raised his hand in greeting. "Hello," he said.
She didn't look particularly well. There was a fragility of both mind and body about her, an impression of a woman made of broken glass. "Archie?" She held out her hand. "My name's Mariel Esterhazy. I'm glad you were able to get here all right."
Archie had left a message on their answering machine to explain the delay. "Nice to meet you, Mariel," he said. He introduced Claire.
"My husband's at work," Mariel said. "But if you bring your luggage up to the house, we'll try to get you settled."
The man who'd stood with her in the doorway came out onto the deck. He was short, with an expression and posture that would have looked good on a Rottweiler. He wore thick glasses, a blue blazer, and loafers.
"We've been watching the reports all morning," Mariel said. "This Moon thing certainly has people stirred up. Isn't that right, Scott?" She waved impatiently at the man to help Claire with her bag.
Scott, it turned out, was her father-in-law. He allowed Claire to come to him before taking the bag from her. Archie saw that he did not entirely approve of his guests. "Several of your trucks have arrived in town," he said, making only minimal effort to hide his distaste. "How many are there altogether?"
"Eighteen."
"I think we can account for about half of them." He managed to look inconvenienced, hefted Claire's bag, and hauled it inside the door.
Mariel showed them to their rooms and invited them to come back downstairs when they were ready. Archie's room was far nicer than anything that had ever been put at his disposal before. It contained an ornately carved queen-size bed, a thick blue carpet, antique furniture, lush drapes the color of lemons, and a spacious walk-in closet. An original landscape dominated one of the walls. Photos of laughing children were displayed atop the bureau and on a side table, and several leather-bound books were stacked on a shelf at the head of the bed.
He washed, changed, and went back down to the living room, where Mariel and Scott were conversing in low tones. Mariel balanced a cup of coffee on her knee. Scott had a mixed drink.
"This whole comet situation has gotten completely out of hand," Mariel said. "People have no sense of perspective anymore." She shook her head, mourning the loss. "Can I get you something to drink, Archie?"
Scott agreed. "But it's got nothing to do with the comet," he added.
Archie asked for chablis. He wondered about Scott's comment. "In what way, sir?" he asked.
"The comet's going to hit the Moon, for God's sake, Archie. I don't care how you cut it, that just isn't a big deal. Listen, the truth is that the country's taking another step toward a collective nervous breakdown. In my profession, we've seen it coming for years."
"And what is your profession, Scott?"
"Same as my son's. I'm a securities dealer. Retired." He made it sound like fleet admiral, retired. "Everybody knows these are scary times. Terrorists with nuclear weapons, rebels everywhere, international corporations with no loyalty to any flag so you never know where they stand. Everybody's scared to death of technology. The country has no faith in God anymore. The government's just a pack of bureaucrats and politicians getting theirs while they can, the churches are dying, and the crazies don't know what to get into. Anything at all happens, it's a conspiracy. This's an age whe
n you need a good account executive."
"I beg your pardon?" This was from Claire, who had just entered the room.
"What I'm trying to say," said Scott, "is that the old days were different. Whatever you bought, it went up. People said they didn't need the advice of the pros. Because they always made money. But that's not true anymore. You need an expert now-"
"I'm sure," said Mariel, "everybody knows that, Dad." She turned to her guests. "Are you two hungry? Can I get you something to eat?"
"Thank you," said Archie, "we ate lunch on the road." He was admiring the furnishings. The room was done in oak and leather. One wingback chair had come from Pine River. Another original oil painting, people on a hillside beneath threatening skies, hung over the mantel.
"It's by Tollinger," Mariel said, apparently expecting him to recognize the name.
Archie nodded as if he wondered how he could have missed the fact.
Claire had been circling the piece, and now she closed in on it. "It's the Coeur deVivre" she said, startled.
"Yes," said Mariel.
Archie understood from Claire's sudden breathlessness that the painting was worth quite a lot. "Scott," he said, "what do you like on the market right now?" Moonbase, Chaplain's Quarters. 2:26 P.M.
"Chaplain? This is Jack Chandler. I wanted you to know that we've got a bus coming back for us. We're going to make a run for it."
"Thank God."
"To be honest, I'm not all that optimistic. But it's a chance."
"Yes. Anything's better than sitting here."
"But Evelyn thought it would be a good idea if we tackled the evening with a full stomach. We're planning a dinner. Will you come?"
"Certainly."
"Good. Excellent. We'll eat, have a few drinks, if that's agreeable. And then we'll go over to the Spaceport."
"Okay."
"Six-thirty."
Right. Very British, that. Tea and lamb chops on the eve of disaster. "I'll be there," he said.
TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 2:31 P.M.
Distributed to participating networks via Pool Agreement.
"This is Keith Morley reporting live from Moonbase, where Comet Tomiko is now very large in the eastern sky, and where the vice president of the United States has announced that he is holding fast to his intention to "lock the door and turn out the lights." Drama is building as the comet approaches. It's due here in a few hours. According to Jack Chandler, the director of Moonbase, the last scheduled flight will depart at six-thirty P.M., leaving behind the vice president and several others, who will try to return to Skyport by microbus.
"But the bus that will carry Haskell and six other people will barely be off the surface before the comet hits. Operations people here are not confident the vehicle can survive the blast that is expected at impact. Bruce, I'll be staying with this story, and we'll just have to see how it plays out.
"This is Keith Morley at Moonbase." SSTO Rome Passenger Cabin. 2:33 P.M.
They were about an hour and a half from departure out of lunar orbit. Rick Hailey had been watching Earth set while a moonbus approached. He bit into a tuna sandwich and turned his attention to the bus as it drew alongside. It cruised in tandem for a few minutes, a large black sphere with the pilot's blister at the top. The buses looked clumsy on the ground, but in flight they had their own special grace.
Light spilled out of the windows and he could see people moving inside. It drifted gradually closer, passing beyond his window's angle of view. Then the pilot announced that docking was imminent. "Please remain in your seat," he asked, "until we get the incoming passengers settled."
Rick felt the shudder that marked the moment of contact, heard hatches open, heard voices, and watched the new arrivals begin to file into the cabin, coming through the main airlock.
There were no flight attendants to help. Instead, at the captain's request, a dozen or so passengers had volunteered to act in that capacity and had been issued white armbands and given a crash course by the flight engineer in kitchen capabilities and whatnot. Now this group squired the newcomers to the bloc of seats reserved for them.
They were quiet, subdued, obviously happy to be at last on the plane. Slade Elliott was among them. Elliott, whose career, like Charlie's, depended on image, also knew enough not to take the first stage out of town. He'd hung on until near the end. But you didn't see him getting caught up in the general crash. He was Rick's kind of guy. And with the action hero on board, the man who'd escaped a thousand dangers, Rick felt safer.
Outside, the comet was rising, a great orange spume against the black sky. He looked at it and thought about the vice president. Charlie Haskell was going to die out there, and Rick wished he could prevent it. He knew there was a lesson to be learned here, but he hadn't quite sorted out in his own mind precisely what it was.
Charlie was genuinely likable. But the poor son of a bitch had been booby-trapped by events. Rick knew that when the time came to publish his memoirs, the loss of Charlie Haskell would be one of the more compelling chapters.
His own political career was now in dire jeopardy as well. None of the other candidates was likely to take him on. He'd had to burn a few bridges and he was now Haskell's guy. Some would even be inclined to believe Charlie's "turn out the lights" remark had been Rick's idea.
Rick wouldn't object to going to work for the other party if someone were to make the right offer. It was a pity really. You don't get many shots at the White House. And it was all gone. Blown out of the water just like that.
And Haskell's sacrifice was probably unnecessary. The voters have a short memory, Charlie. He wondered whether the vice president had even stopped to consider how much damage he was doing to his friends. Still, the road to the presidency seemed to run right through Moonbase. Right through the heart of that goddam comet.
More hatches closed somewhere in the bowels of the plane.
Rick pulled down the shade.
PACIFIC NEWS NETWORK BULLETIN. 3:56 P.M.
Distributed to participating networks via Pool Agreement.
"This is Tashi Yomiuri coming to you live from lunar orbit. I'm in one of the space planes, the SSTO Rome, and we're taking our last passengers on board now before we start back for Earth. The comet is about eight million miles away, coming toward us at almost a million miles an hour.
"We've been orbiting the Moon three times a day at a height of about three thousand kilometers. Which means we see the comet rise and set every eight hours. We've been able to watch it grow.
"The mood on the spacecraft is somber. People are frightened, and they'll be very glad to be on their way."
WALL STREET JOURNAL, ELECTRONIC EDITION
Excerpt of Commentary by Melinda Bright.
"People speculate about how far the comet has come, how old it is, why it's traveling so fast. We've heard astronomers suggest that it might have been blown out of a supernova, and that if it was, the supernova must have happened millions, or perhaps billions, of years ago.
"If that's true, this thing has had the Moon's number for a long time. I remember as a little girl sitting in our backyard in Kentucky, watching the Moon from my swing, and thinking how long it had been in the sky, and how it would be there forever. Now we know that's not so. The comet's been on its way possibly since the first humans climbed down out of the trees, and this day was marked on some cosmic calendar with all the inevitability of a quadratic equation. We've been congratulating ourselves that the comet's going to hit the Moon and not the Earth. And I agree that's reason to feel fortunate.
"But it isn't reason to feel glad. The Moon is an old friend, far older than the species. It's an integral part of who we are, and the way we live. It softens us. We associate it with our most tender feelings. We have made it a goddess, and we have written songs and poems about it. We have pledged our love to each other in its silver light. Maybe only when we see it no more, when this visiting monstrosity has put out its light for all generations to come, will we understand what we ha
ve lost." • • • SSTO Rome Flight Deck. 4:04 P.M.
John Verrano eased onto his new heading, watched the clock run down to zero, and felt the engines kick in. The force they generated pressed him back into his seat as the spacecraft rose out of orbit.
3.
Moonbase, Main Plaza. 6:01 P.M.
The news that an effort would be made to get the last group out had fired Chaplain Pinnacle's soul. He'd tried to maintain a stoic attitude throughout his ordeal. Into Thy hands, 0 Lord… But life was priceless, and God knew that Mark did not want to part with it.
He sat at a table beside a cluster of palms outside the Victor Hugo sidewalk cafe. No one walked now among the trees, the lights were out in the offices, and the artificially generated breeze, sharp with mint, blew through the parks. In all the vast wooded expanse of Main Plaza, he saw only a young couple, strolling quietly, making their way gradually toward the tram station.
A handful of people came off one of the up-ramps, hurried across the center of the mall, and joined them. The chaplain glanced at his watch. There would only be four more flights out, three to the single plane that remained orbiting. And finally his flight, whose destination was in God's hands.
He was nervous about the dinner, afraid his fear would show. He'd tried prayer, had begged for courage, but still his hand shook and his voice played tricks on him.
One of his parishioners, a young woman, had come to the chapel when she'd heard he was staying and offered him a narcotic. Something to quiet his nerves. Get him through the ordeal. The stuff they called "silver." It was illegal, and he'd been startled when she'd produced the packet. He'd said no, he wouldn't need it, thank you very much, but she'd held it out and in the end he concluded it was his duty to take it from her. Remove the temptation. She'd kissed his cheek, wished him luck, and hurried away. He'd actually considered using it. But he did not know whether he had a tolerance for such things, and in the end he'd dropped it into a trash receptacle.
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