Текст книги "Orbit"

Автор книги: John Nance

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

What is that?

Something has changed, Kip realizes. The sound of the air conditioning, pressurization system more or less wobbled for a second. Once again he scans the panel, his heart in his throat. If that system goes down, or the fuel cells fail, the end will come a lot quicker.

But once more everything appears stable and his ears aren’t clicking, and when he finds it, the cabin pressure indication looks normal. Slowly—as if looking away would allow the indications to start going sour and only continuous scrutiny could prevent such—he disconnects once again and forces himself back to what he was writing.

Despite all the dour messages I got as a kid, I grew up kinda liking me. That was actually a big victory in itself, because if I had applied all the religious terror that both sides of my parental equation taught me, it was clear I was on a fast-track to hell, mainly for being an average teenage boy. In truth, I was a pretty good and honest kid, but since I was made to feel guilty about pretty much everything, that set the stage for my thinking as an adult.

When the very act of being a normal human is labeled bad and sinful, your guilt becomes an ever-present companion. Like Eeyore and his tail. I feel guilty for so much in my life, and sometimes I feel guilty even for feeling guilty. Thoreau said in Walden: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Good Lord, yes, that’s been me. And when it comes to courage to break out, yes, I’ve been a failure. Don’t abused women do that, too? Just take it and hope things will get better?

Feeling guilty was engineered into my mental operating system, but you know something? How can we really be all that bad if God put us here? Aren’t we defaming Him to suggest such a thing? Where does society get off deciding that human beingsare inherently so bad and flawed and evil that we have to spend our lives feeling guilty about being us?

Here I sit, three hundred and ten miles and an impenetrable distance above my planet, and it’s literally like pulling the lens back and getting a broader view. My God, it makes me want to yell at everyone down there: Don’t waste time feeling bad about being an imperfect human. Acknowledge your mistakes, correct them, and go on, but take the risk of enjoying what you’ve got, and be brave enough to change what doesn’t work. Don’t be depressed by those who want us all to feel guilty, about being busy, about being American, or about not conforming to someone else’s stereotype.

And if I truly did have a bullhorn loud enough to be heard down there, I’d say one more thing, loud and clear: Tell your kids how much you love them and how proud you are of them, and spend as much time with them as you possibly can (it’s so sad how few of us really do that well). You see, I’ll never have another chance to tell my son and my daughters how much their dad loves them. But all those moms and dads down there still do. What a gift.

Chapter 27

KALGOORLIE-BOULDER, WESTERN AUSTRALIA, MAY 19, 7:45 A.M. PACIFIC/10:45 P.M. WST

The chances of remaining anonymous being slim to none, Alastair forces himself to head downstairs in search of his father. Scenes from the Green Milecome to mind as he contemplates the potential ferocity of his dad’s reaction.

Dead boy walking!he thinks, feeling ill.

It was hard enough to feign innocence this morning before school, especially with the arrival of two more e-mails from ABC, quickly deleted. But the live narrative from space he illegally uncovered is now a worldwide story, and even his father is captivated by it.

Dad has spent the whole evening in front of the telly, darting to the kitchen to grab his food and return, one eye kept on the words crawling across the bottom of the screen.

His mother, too, is hooked—worse than any soap opera. She, too, wanted to stay in front of the screen, so dinner became a can of heated chili.

According to his father, the local search for the hacker who started it will be successful.

“Why, Dad?” Alastair asks, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking.

“Because, ultimately, the police will force the Internet provider involved to divulge the owner’s name. They may want to thank him, but they’ll probably prosecute him, too. If he was my kid, I’d probably strangle him with the cord to his mouse.”

It was all Alastair could do to keep a plastic smile on his face and nod as his stomach twisted. He flew to his room, but another round of pleading e-mails from the Australian network pushed him past the tipping point, convincing him to confess now, rather than fessing up after a public discovery as they haul him to the nearest jail.

“Dad?”

His folks’ bedroom is dark and the door is open, and as he lets his eyes adjust, he can just make out his mother’s form under the covers, her long, sandy hair spilling over the side of the bed. His father’s side is empty, so he continues down the hallway to the living room, practicing his opening line.

Dad, there’s something I have to tell you. No. Dad, I need to tell you something important. Dammit, no. Dad, sit down. I have a confession to make.

The TV is still on, of course. He could hear it from his room. And his father is still in the same spot he was an hour ago, on the couch, leaning forward, his hands clasped, concentrating lest he miss reading a word. He’s wearing a pullover, and as Alastair draws closer he can see his father holding what looks like a handkerchief.

The message on the screen is only one line long and moving, but he lets his eyes follow it for a second, recognizing enough to know that the man stuck in orbit—Kip—is talking about his son in the Air Force Academy again. Alastair doesn’t understand why the son is so angry, but the father’s remorse touches even Alastair’s tough father.

“Dad?” he says, tentatively, barely above a whisper, as if failing to be heard could be an escape pass and he can flee back to his room.

There’s no response, so he narrows the distance to five feet and tries again, forcing himself to speak louder.

“Dad?” he begins again, and this time he sees his father’s broad-shouldered form jump slightly.

“Yes, son?” He’s still riveted on the screen, and all Alastair can see is the back of his head.

“I… have something to tell you, Dad.”

“Something to sell me?”

“No. No, tellyou. Something to tell you.”

“Right. Go ahead.”

Weird,Alastair thinks. Why isn’t he turning around to look me in the eye like he always does?

“Dad, that kid they’re looking for? The one who found that space tourist’s transmission?”

“Yes?”

“I… should have told you before…”

His father is turning around now and Alastair can see his father’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face damp, as if he’d been crying. He’s never seen his dad cry, so maybe it’s allergies. The thought takes him away from his terror.

“Should have told me what, son? You know who the fellow is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, tell me.”

He swallows and dives off the high board, sure he’ll hit cement.

“It was me, Dad. I did it. I’m so sorry! I know I promised I’d never hack into anything again, but I…”

His sentence is interrupted by the frightening speed of his father’s six-foot frame rising from the chair in a heartbeat and covering the distance between them. Alastair flinches and tries to step back, totally unprepared to be scooped up in a bear hug.

“Dad? Are you okay?” Alastair asks after a few seconds of pure shock, straining to breathe.

His father nods at first instead of speaking, which is strange. When he finds his voice it’s a strained, reedy version of it.

“I’m so sorry, Alastair.”

Utter confusion crackles through Alastair’s brain, the words making no sense. His father should be angry, stern, gesturing red-faced, and working his way to some sort of punishment. Some yelling wouldn’t scare him half as much as this.

Yet he’s standing here almost holding me off the ground and crying.

“Dad, I don’t understand.”

“It’s hard to explain, son.”

“Could… could you try?”

“I just want to hug you for a second, okay?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“There was a time I could put you on my knee, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re too big now, but I miss that.”

And at last Bob Wood holds his son back at arm’s length and smooths his hair with one hand while keeping a steely grip on his shoulder with the other.

“I’m the one who’s kind of taken things for granted, son. I’ve been hard on you, even when you’ve done such a good job in school. I tell you when I’m upset with you, but I haven’t told you enough when I’ve been pleased.”

“You’re pleased?”

His father is nodding, smiling, his big wet face looking like some benevolent alien rather than his strict dad. He thinks about asking, “Who are you and what have you done with my father?” but he’s too shocked to be funny.

“I’ve let myself get too busy to be there for all your games and plays and things. And we haven’t gone walkabout for a year.”

“You’ve been to almost everything, Dad, and I know you’re busy.”

“So was the poor fellow you discovered, Alastair. He was very busy, and he missed some of his son’s stuff, too, and there he sits in orbit, dying, can’t tell his kid how proud he is of him, and how much…” The sentence trails off, incomplete.

“Dad…”

“And about the hacking. Did you tell the authorities what you found when you found it?”

“Yes, sir. I e-mailed the space company in California and they thanked me.”

“Then I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

The bear hug starts again, along with words he can’t recall ever hearing.

“I love you, son!”

Alastair can feel him shaking slightly, and he pats his father’s shoulder.

“That’s okay, Dad. Really. I love you, too.”

PAD 39B, KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, FLORIDA, 8:25 A.M. PACIFIC/11:25 A.M. EASTERN

The Deputy Space Shuttle Program Manager stands on an upper gantry bridge and adjusts his death grip on the railing. So far, even after three decades at the Cape, no one knows he’s a hopeless acrophobic, and he intends to keep it that way.

It would be useful to look over the side to the base of the launch pad some one hundred and fifty feet below to see whether Jerry Curtis had stepped into the elevator yet, but Griggs Hopewell is not about to try it. What happens to his head with such a view is a nightmare he’s smart enough not to revisit.

Ever!

Predictably, Curtis—the Director of Safety and Mission Assurance—was anything but pleased about being called out to the top of the launch complex. They haven’t gotten along for years, and though Griggs tries to keep the volatile manager’s feathers unruffled and tries to listen to his department’s constant dithering, there are times he has to pull rank, and this is definitely one of them.

Griggs smiles at his memory of their brief conversation.

“Well, why don’t you just come to my office?” Curtis whined.

“Nope. High-level meetings are best held in high places. Gantry, top tier, Pad 39B in twenty minutes. That’s an order, Bub!”

Griggs takes a deep breath. “Where the hell is that insubordinate bastard!” he growls to himself. The delay is wearing thin, even though he’ll never tire of standing beside the monstrous form of the shuttle, especially when it’s mated to the solid rocket boosters and external tank and poised, ready for launch, as it is now.

There’s still a chance they can make the launch window, but with each new delay, that hope becomes more iffy. After a cut cable, a safety stop, two personnel complaints about overtime that spilled all the way up to D.C., and the latest dust-up over the fueling schedule, he’s beginning to detect sabotage in the air, although, given the fact that the rescue involves Richard DiFazio’s company, some forms of sabotage even from the administrator himself would be unsurprising.

Griggs shakes his head, thinking of the Ahab-like determination Geoff Shear has shown to find the fatal flaws in private spaceflight in general. But in the case of DiFazio—perhaps the only man to publicly unmask Shear’s deceptions in front of the Senate and the public—his little company has become the white whale, the Moby Dick Captain Ahab is determined to find and kill.

His thoughts snap back to the gantry and the present, and the presumed interference aided by Curtis, who seems to be rubber-stamping even the most flimsy concerns as genuine safety problems.

The elevator is rising now, and Griggs readjusts his grip and waits, watching the gulls soaring lazily in the mid-day sun.

The elevator cage door opens and disgorges Curtis who appears spoiling for a fight, yet smart enough not to start one.

“Okay, Griggs, I’m here. What?”

“Jerry, see this big old thing we’re standing beside?”

“No, Griggs, I see nothing,” he snaps, the sarcastic tone barely contained. “Must be your vivid imagination. Come on, man, you didn’t call me up here to admire the damn launch vehicle.”

“Well, I called you up here to answer a very simple question.”

“Yeah?”

“You want to launch this thing on time?”

“What? Of course!”

“You understand the go order comes from the President of these here United States, right? And he’s the ultimate boss?”

“What are you saying? That I’m doing something to frustrate this launch? Have you forgotten the basics of system safety?”

“We had a cut cable this morning. How’d it get cut?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got an investigation going. It doesn’t look like anything but a mistake.”

“I’m getting a work-to-rule headache out here, too, with those two clowns filing their complaint last night.”

“It’s handled.”

“Yeah, but why now, Jerry? I checked those two. They’ve never, ever, been upset by the very thing they jumped on this morning. Someone ask them to complain, perhaps?”

“I don’t like your implication, Griggs.”

“Well, I don’t like delays unless they are truly safety-related, and the reason I called you up here is so I could say this to you clearly and without excessive ears around. If you or any of your people—including that little gal from D.C. who’s been lurking around…”

“Dorothy?”

“The same.”

“She’s just doing routine safety audits.”

“Right. And I’ve got beachfront property in Phoenix for sale. If anyone starts using artificial safety reasons to delay this launch, Shear won’t be able to save the culprit from professional oblivion, you included.”

“Are we done here?”

“I hope so. I just want to make sure you understand. A presidential order means a national priority. If it’s really a safety issue, I’m with you. If it’s artificial, I’ll strap your ass on one of these SRBs and launch it myself.”

Chapter 28

NORTH HOUSTON, TEXAS, May 19, 1:55 P.M. PACIFIC/3:55 P.M. CENTRAL

Jerrod enters the smoky den tentatively, like his invitation might have expired and he doesn’t want to get caught gawking at the animal heads and plaques and other artifacts on what Mike Summers calls his “I Love Me Wall.”

He’s spent most of the day with Julie watching his father’s story and words. Even Sharon was decent to him, and he feels beaten down enough to appreciate that, putting his discomfort around her on hold so as to support his dad with his attention and his remorse.

“Sir?” he asks, pretty sure he sees Mike Summers’s form in a large swivel recliner across the den. Sure enough, the recliner turns and Big Mike spots him, getting to his feet and motioning him over.

“Jerrod. Come over here.”

“You want to talk to me?”

“I sure do. Come sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

“I’ll take a Coke if you have one.”

“Also have stronger stuff, son, if you’d like. As far as I’m concerned, you’re entitled.”

“Maybe a beer, then. Thanks.”

Mike gets a couple of longnecks from a small refrigerator and hands one to Jerrod before motioning him down and returning to his chair. Jerrod twists off the top and settles onto a small couch opposite, and they stare at each other in silence.

“You been watching all day?” Mike asks.

“TV? Yeah.”

“TV, and your dad’s writings?”

Jerrod nods, his eyes now down. He’s noticed the large stack of printed pages by Mike’s chair.

“I ditched going to my office today and pulled up a record of everything he’s said so far… there must be a thousand Web sites keeping track… and I printed it, and read it, and son, I gotta ask you something directly, man to man. All right with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It may be harsh.”

“Okay.”

“I’m pretty direct, Jerrod, so I’m just going to say this… as soon as you look at me, that is.”

Jerrod looks up and meets his gaze.

“Okay. Now, just what the hell are you so angry about?”

“I…with all due respect, sir…”

“Can the bullshit, Mister! Just talk to me. Why are you so damned furious at him? For marrying my daughter?”

“No, I mean… no.”

“Another pile of manure! Of course you are.”

“I don’t dislike her.”

“Son, listen. You don’t like her at all. Hell, she’s my daughter and half the time Idon’t like her, either! And I know it’s not because of who she is, but because he brought her in to replace your mom, right?”

He’s nodding. A good sign,Mike figures.

“Okay, and some of that’s natural. And I know my little girl, and I know she’s probably made a mess out of trying to get to know you, and with you not liking anyone female he brought in… I get it. That doesn’t bother me much. But what I want to know from you is, why are you so mad at your old man that you’ve… you’ve stomped his heart flat? Huh? What’d he do to deserve that?”

Tears are welling up now and Jerrod is trying to hide them, as well as hide his anger at being cornered.

“I was wrong, I guess. I should have forgiven him.”

“For what?”

“For… you wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I would, and I want to hear you say it. Why? Not because he found a girl and married her. Not because he asked you to respect her as his wife. Then why? Does it have anything to do with your mom’s fatal accident?”

“I’d rather not…”

“You think he set that up somehow?”

“Of course not.”

“She decided to go driving that day all by herself, didn’t she?”

“I suppose.”

“In fact, it was all her fault, wasn’t it?”

“No!”

“No? Why not? You tell me why. We both know she was sick that day and had no business driving. She told you she had the flu, right?”

“He made her drive! Okay? My sister was waiting at her school for hours for Dad to pick her up, but he couldn’t break away, so he leaves Mom to do it, knowing full well she was too sick.” The words are a snarl, and exactly what Mike wanted to elicit, and with the native abilities of an oil field negotiator, he eggs Jerrod on.

“That’s all bullshit, son!”

Jerrod is on his feet, his eyes aflame. “No, it isn’t! You don’t know anything about it. You weren’t there, and I was!”

“I don’t have to have been there. I know what you’re saying is bull. Your mama had no business driving that day. She killed herself.”

"No!”Jerrod’s eyes are closed, his arms in the air, fists clenched, his body shaking, as he tries to control the response, tries to avoid punching his in-law grandfather or throwing something at the big-mouthed bastard. He can hear his teeth grinding in pain and anger but doesn’t hear big Mike Summers rise quickly from his chair to suddenly grab him by the shoulders and swing him around.

“It’s okay, Jerrod. Those are the things I wanted to hear you say.”

Jerrod looks stunned and Mike continues, nose to nose.

“I wasn’t there, but there’s a lot more to the story you never knew, and your dad never told you, and it’s time you heard the truth.”

“What?” Jerrod’s voice is subdued, suspicious, like he’s just been maneuvered into a scam, yet Mike Summers is close to a force of nature and he can’t bring himself to completely disbelieve.

“Come here and sit.” Mike guides him back down and scoots his own chair as close as he can.

“I know you heard the crash, Jerrod. I know you ran to the end of the block, saw her car in flames, and ran the rest of the way to the wreck. I know you burned yourself trying to get her out, and that you watched her burn to death. I can’t erase… no one can erase those terrible images. But, son, your mama was having a hard time psychologically. She was, in essence, emotionally disturbed and taking several drugs from several different doctors, none of whom knew about the other. Two of them… a very powerful antidepressant and a drug called Ritalin… should never have been taken together, because one of the dangerous side effects is making really bad decisions, and hallucinating.”

“Hallucinating? Like… like on LSD?”

“Or worse. Or maybe just seeing things that weren’t there, or not seeing things that were. Like a stoplight. Like the one she ran through.”

“I didn’t know this.”

“I know you didn’t. And your dad wrongly believed that if he told you, you’d be even angrier with him for slandering your mom.”

There is a long silence as Jerrod searches Mike’s face for any sign that he’s being lied to.

“But here’s the rest of the story, Jerrod. That day, Julie had already been picked up safely at your dad’s direction by a family friend, but he couldn’t get your mom to accept that. She was paranoid and thought he was lying, and despite the fact that she had been warned not to drive, she did it anyway.”

“I remember Dad called, but she said it was to tell her he wasn’t coming for Julie.”

“Yes, that’s right. He wasn’t coming because she was already picked up, okay?”

“He said that… he told me some of those things, but I never believed him. I asked my mother once weeks before if she was taking something because she seemed so out of it, but she said no and I believed her. And… and that day, I only heard her side of the conversation, and she was furious and told me Dad wasn’t going to pick Julie up because he couldn’t be bothered.”

“In fact, when he was on that phone call—the part you didn’t hear—he was begging her to understand what he was saying. When she sounded so strange, he left work and screamed toward home, and it’s fortunate you didn’t lose both of them that day. Didn’t you ever wonder why he showed up at the accident site so quickly?”

Jerrod shakes his head, stunned. “I never knew it was quick. I was so… horrified…”

“I understand.”

“How do you know all this, sir?”

“Your dad sat right here one night a few years back and told me the whole story. He felt… just like he’s been writing up there in space about guilt… he felt so guilty that he didn’t see it coming, didn’t know about her doubled prescriptions. See, guys like him and you and me, we get this idea that if anything happens on our watch, it’s all our fault, regardless. Especially where women are involved, ’cause, see, we’re supposed to protect them.”

Jerrod is nodding slowly, numbly, as Mike continues.

“Your dad later sent me copies of the prescription drug labels, Jerrod, and I had a friend validate the effects. This isn’t exaggerated.”

Jerrod buries his head in his hands. “Oh God, I never gave him a chance, and now…”

“Okay. Look, I think they’ll get him down from there. I have a lot of hope for that, and you should, too. But there’s something else. What’s really been going on with you, Jerrod, is that you keep blaming yourself even more than him. You think deep down inside that if you’d been faster, stronger, smarter, or what-the-hell-ever, you could have pulled her out of that car before the fire killed her. You know why I know that? ‘Cause you’re a male, and that’s the goddammed way we think. Especially about our moms. Son, I sawthe pictures, okay? The post-fire pictures shot by the coroner.”

“How?”

“Before your dad married my daughter I had him thoroughly investigated, and I wanted every detail of that tragedy to make sure he had no culpability. Jerrod, she was trapped in a tangle of metal. There was nothing you could have done!”

“I could have pulled her out of the window.”

He sighs deeply, his eyes on Jerrod, considering whether to push on.

“Okay, dammit… I’m going to show you a picture, Jerrod, if you truly want to see it. It’s gruesome as hell and it will probably do you more harm, so I beg you not to ask, but you’re an adult now. If you want to see it, I’ll show it to you, but it was taken after her body was burned beyond recognition. It shows clearly that she had been completely impaled on the steering column after the wheel broke off. Run through, Jerrod, all the way through to her backbone. Even if you’d had superhuman strength, all you would have been able to pull out was her upper torso.”

“I… saw her look at me… her mouth moved… she was screaming…”

The only grandfather he’s ever known moves to sit alongside him, putting a big arm around the boy and pulling him into a hug, hanging on as the tears finally flow.

ABOARD INTREPID

The so-called terminator—the line of demarcation between night and day—is crawling across the middle of the United States again, but Kip has to check his watch and think to realize that it’s been two days since he should have returned to Earth. He’s checked the oxygen and CO ₂scrubber saturation tables twice now, and he figures he has two more days before breathing begins to get difficult. Maybe he should just depressurize the ship and finish the job, freeze drying himself and his dead pilot with the vacuum of deep space and eternal cold.

Bill is about to become a problem. Kip knows it instinctively. A body in room temperature for two days has already gone through rigor mortis, and despite being sealed in plastic as well as Kip could manage, he fears that soon he’ll be inhaling the telltale odor of decomposition. Earlier, he stopped writing for a half hour to search out Bill’s pressure suit, wondering if perhaps putting him in it and sealing everything wouldn’t be the best course of action. But he’s convinced he’s waited too long; were he to open the sealed plastic now…

Besides, he might decide to go for a spacewalk and just end it out there as his own satellite.

But for now the air remains okay and he’s way too far into the story of his life to waste the remaining forty-eight hours pulling and hauling on a space suit that—given Bill’s slightly smaller frame—probably wouldn’t fit him anyway.

The pull to get back to the keyboard is great, and this time not because of the escape it provides, but because he’s worried about the import of everything he’s chronicled, frightened that it doesn’t amount to as much as he thought. An autobiography of mundane occurrences and banal sameness, and an embarrassing lack of significant achievements. He isn’t happy with the way his life looks so far, and he’s hoping it will get better, rounding the corner of the last ten years. There have been happy times, he’s sure of that. But somehow, in print, as a chronicle, it seems so ordinary, and he’s caught himself wanting to lapse into fiction a few times, spice up a few things here and there. After all, who on Earth would know, so to speak?

But the fact that it is, or was, his life forces him to stay honest about the details, even some that he would never have spoken about on Earth.

There’s an incident in particular a few years back that still bothers me to the point of losing sleep, something I did nothing about in order to save my job. I didn’t find out until too late, and when I discovered the corporate leaders knew about it, I was convinced they would can me if I said anything. I just stowed the evidence away quietly and sat on it like a coward. I’ll never know how many people, if any, have been injured or maybe even killed. But a corporation that knowingly ships a bad, completely inactivated lot of a major antibiotic just to avoid the costs of a recall has to be committing a criminal act.

Kip stops, wondering whether to risk putting the details down in print for the first time, knowing it could put several executives of the American branch of the company in prison. But who will care twenty or fifty or whatever years from now? And if by some miracle he does get rescued, he can quietly delete it.

Ah, what the hell. No one’s reading this but me anyway.

I think I want to tell you in detail exactly what happened, and how I found out.

THE WHITE HOUSE, 4:18 P.M. PACIFIC/7:18 P.M. EASTERN

Ron Porter makes it a point never to charge out of his office like the West Wing is on fire. He knows about the adrenaline that races into bloodstreams when a Chief of Staff looks panicked, and now is no exception—even late in the evening with most of the staff gone.

He strolls to the desk just outside the Oval Office still occupied by the President’s secretary and catches her eye. Technically, she works for Porter, but he wouldn’t dare fire or chastise her without the President’s permission. She’s been working for the man for twenty years.

Not that she needs chastising or firing, but sometimes Elizabeth Dela-court can be a bit too harsh as a gatekeeper.

“Is he ready, Liz?” he asks, glad for the relaxed smile in return as she waves him in.

He expects to find the President behind his desk, but instead sees him in front of the TV, quietly reading the latest words from Kip Dawson.

Ron, too, has been caught in that distraction all day, canceling any productive work as he watched the words on his computer screen.

“Pretty amazing, huh, Ron? Just one guy, but I can’t quite stop reading him. And… frankly, he’s making a lot of sense on some things.”

“Mr. President, two items. First, the Chinese have just let it be known that they’re going to launch on Saturday to go get him regardless of our plans to launch EndeavorSaturday around noon, and the Russians plan to launch Saturday at the same time. On top of that, the Japanese Space Agency says they’re preparing an emergency launch for Friday.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish I were.”

“This is ridiculous. What are they going to do if they all make it up there? Draw straws? Has Shear tried to discourage them?”

“No. He’s encouraging them. The Russians in particular. He says it’s because Endeavormay not be ready, even though they’re already on the extended countdown.”

“Call Shear at home, will you, and tell him now’s the time to pare this down to one reasonable backup launch. I know he can’t control those folks but he can beg and wheedle.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“And the second item?”

“Nothing we can do about it, but we just celebrated a completely unexpected, undeclared national holiday. Actually, more like international.”

“What are you talking about, Ron?”

“A large segment of our business community is reporting massive absenteeism and the retail sector is reporting plummeting sales. Everyone’s staying home to read what Dawson is writing.”