Moonfall

9.

Micro Passenger Cabin. 3:47 P.M.

CNN was covering a press conference conducted by the senior senator from Idaho. She was the mouthpiece for Tom Clay, the majority leader and Charlie's probable opponent in November. Even Clay, he thought, should be willing to get behind the White House now.

But that wasn't the way it was going. "… should step down," she was saying, looking directly out of the screen. "Don't misunderstand me. I have no wish to attack Charlie Haskell. I saw some electronic bumper stickers already this morning saying that Haskell's a rascal, and I don't much like that kind of mindless mudslinging. But I can understand why people are outraged. We all know the president would like to dissociate himself from the policies of Henry Kolladner. But he can't. The country no longer trusts his party, it no longer trusts him, and we just can't go on this way. The life of the nation's at stake. We need to move forward and to move forward fast. Consequently, it would be in everybody's best interest-"

Charlie killed the sound and stared at the woman. Pompous, arrogant old bitch, willing to take a chance with national survival to accrue immediate political advantage. Evelyn had been watching from her seat.

"I wonder how these people ever manage to get elected," he said.

She looked at him oddly.

"What?" he asked. "What's so amusing?"

"Your friend Rick Hailey specialized in getting people like that elected."

"Including me?" he demanded.

Her eyes narrowed as she appraised him. Charlie had been in the arena too long to be concerned by blatant political attacks, but Evelyn's opinion seemed unduly important.

"No, Charlie, not including you. You were something of an anomaly in his career. You must explain it to me sometime."

Charlie was getting reports of isolated uprisings in the heartland. The crazies, spurred by the national crisis, were swarming out of their nests and proclaiming independent sovereignties, threatening local law enforcement officials, and in some cases committing murder and taking hostages. Several towns in Montana and Idaho had been seized and were broadcasting claims they had seceded from the United States.

He wished there were a way to get some privacy other than by retreating to the washroom. He found himself phrasing his remarks to Al Kerr, and to the others with whom he spoke, with an eye to their effect on the other passengers. When, for example, he advised the governor of Idaho to act against the rebels, to be assured of full presidential support, he found himself toning down the message. We don't have time or resources for sieges, he'd wanted to say. Send in the Guard and shoot their asses off if they don't cave. Instead, he'd delivered some mealy-mouthed comments urging appropriate state action and promising it would have the full support of the government.

Saber's voice came over the PA: "You folks might want to look out to port."

"Which way's port?" asked the chaplain.

A set of lights was moving among the stars. The cavalry had arrived.

They shook hands all around and congratulated one another. Morley went live, captured the celebratory mood, and noted for his audience that there was only a two-hour air supply left. It struck Charlie that the journalist would have been happier had it been more of a close thing, with people passing out as the Lowell drew alongside for a last-minute rescue. Well, Transglobal couldn't have everything.

He made a final trip up to the flight deck, where Saber greeted him with a broad smile. "Thanks," Charlie said. "For everything."

She shrugged, suggesting it had all been in a day's work. "Glad to help, Mr. President."

It had been, to say the least, a harrowing flight. Charlie Haskell, in a way, had been no more than one among equals. He'd grown accustomed to traveling with aides at his side, like Rick, or foreign dignitaries, or journalists. And security people. He was always the vice president, and never Charlie Haskell. Haskell had gotten lost somewhere, but during the last seventeen hours he'd come back.

The chasm had opened again when he'd been sworn in. Even Evelyn had withdrawn after the ceremony. The sense of camaraderie that he'd shared with them at Moonbase and during the early hours of the flight had receded. Why? His mere accession to the top job should not have replaced the barrier that had been breached by the fire of common danger. Yet it had happened, and he knew that he was partially responsible. He spent most of his time now squirreled away with his cell phone, talking to the makers and shakers. The affection in his fellow passengers' eyes had been replaced by respect. He wondered whether he wasn't paying too high a price for political power.

Saber was listening to her headset. She swung the mouthpiece forward and nodded. "He's standing right beside me, Lowell," she said. "Wait one." She pointed Charlie into the right-hand seat.

"Charles Haskell," said Charlie.

"Mr. President, the Percival Lowell sends greetings. We're pleased to have the opportunity to provide transportation for you, sir."

Charlie stared at the communication console. Even out here, under these circumstances, it was all politics. And he understood immediately what Rachel Quinn-he'd met her once-wanted. Don't forget Mars. "Thank you," he said, keeping the resentment out of his voice. "We're all delighted to see you."

Something banged against the hull, one last rock for the Micro. They paused, listening for alarms. But no klaxons sounded and no red lights blinked on.

Sensing his discomfort, Saber rescued him: "Lowell, are we ready to make the transfer?"

"At your pleasure. Do you have any power at all?"

"Negative."

"Okay. Just sit tight. We'll take care of everything."

The interplanetary ship acquired definition. It was a long, elegant vessel, spare and utilitarian, lights glowing warmly. The civilization that could build such a vehicle and send it off into the dark certainly had a future. Charlie resolved that he would not stand by and allow that future to be sidetracked.

His cell phone chimed. "Yes, Al?"

"Bad news, Charlie. The Possum's coming back."

He was so numbed by the litany of disaster stories that it seemed like just one more, an extra statistic in a train wreck.

"You mean coming down?" he said at last.

"Yeah."

His eyes closed, trying to shut out the sense of the vast emptiness beyond the bulkhead.

"When? How long?"

"Tuesday morning. Around five."

Charlie pulled a headset on. "Are they sure?"

"Yeah. Well, they're saying it's too early to be absolutely certain, but they want us to assume the worst."

"Okay. Get back to Feinberg, get NASA, and get the facts. There's no room here for guesswork."

"Okay, Mr. President."

Charlie didn't miss the switch back to formality. "Where?" he asked. "Where's it going to hit?"

"Looks like the middle of Kansas."

"My God. We don't get a break, do we? Okay, Al, we'll have to go back to the nukes."

"That's what we thought. We can't just stand by-"

"Absolutely. Let me know what you come up with. Everything else goes to the back burner. We need to get rid of this son of a bitch. Don't just talk to the military. Talk to Feinberg and anybody else out there who might have an idea what we can do. Have them double-check the numbers." He watched the lights of the Lowell getting brighter. "What else have you got?"

"I'm not sure what to do about Henry. We've announced a joint memorial service Wednesday for him and Emily. But there's some disagreement about how to do it. Anything elaborate might not look good with the way things are now. His family thinks, under the circumstances, we should keep it modest."

Thank God. There at least was a problem that was manageable. "Listen, Al, if you're right about the Possum on Tuesday, there might not be a Wednesday."

Kerr did not respond.

"The family's right," Charlie continued. "Keep it small. Tasteful but small. The country doesn't need a parade right now. After we get through this, maybe we can do something more. Any chance of getting back into Washington by Tuesday or so?"

"The city's still under water."

"Okay. Look, Henry was a vet. A Marine. If the families agree, let's run the memorial at Arlington. That's high ground. They're okay over there, right?"

"I suppose so."

"Do it. Bring in the Marine band. He'd like that. Fire the weapons, fly some jets overhead. The missing man, right? Just keep it modest."

"Yes, sir. What about the government offices? We need to get running again."

"Al, you're on the spot. Figure out what needs to be done and do it. Close up and give the hordes a few days off. Find some temporary space somewhere. But keep a presence. Understand?"

"Sure. But-"

"Take care of the details. I'm about to be rescued and I want to enjoy it."

"Okay, Charlie. By the way, I'm glad to hear it. We've been worried."

Charlie disconnected, returned to the passenger cabin, and took a window seat beside Evelyn. Lowell was running parallel with them now. It drew closer and he could see into the interior, see someone moving.

"Unforgettable moment, Charlie," Evelyn whispered. "This'll be a major TV movie next year."

"I hope so," he said.

The Percival Lowell had been described as the principal engineering marvel to date of the century. Its proponents maintained that it was the key to opening the solar system to exploration and development. With the technology that had been employed on this vehicle, no one knew what the limits might be.

The Lowell moved in close and Charlie could count the rivets. "Everybody please belt down." Saber's voice.

Morley was speaking quietly into his mike. Charlie didn't know whether he was broadcasting or recording impressions until he saw the journalist's picture-a still-on one of the displays, with the legend: LIVE FROM THE PRESIDENT'S MOONBUS.

There was a heaviness in the air, compounded by the sweaty pungency of human bodies that had lived too long with fear and without showers. The chaplain was seated behind him. He leaned forward. "Mr. President, I'm happy to have had the chance to get to know you." He spoke in a tone that sounded like good-bye.

Charlie understood. Once they got safely across to Lowell, the last hazard would have been passed and the last intimacy would drain away. "Me, too," he said. "Maybe you can come over for lunch when we get home." Halfway through the remark, he realized it was the wrong thing to say, simultaneously pretentious and mindless. But he was committed, so he blundered ahead.

"That would be nice," said the chaplain with a straight face.

Lowell was now within about twenty meters. One of its hatches swung wide, and someone in a p-suit emerged. The astronaut looked up, saw Charlie and the others watching him, and waved.

Propelled by a jetpack, he pushed away from Lowell.

"They're going to take Bigfoot and Tony aboard first," Saber told them. "It'll take a while before they get to us."

Forty minutes later they were ready to go. The airlock opened and Charlie took a last look around the passenger cabin. The chaplain caught his glance and nodded. "What'll happen to it, do you think?" he asked.

"It'll make Jupiter eventually," said Saber. "There won't be any effort to retrieve it. It's not practical."

"I don't know," said Morley, speaking simultaneously to them and to his audience. "I suspect this rig'll have real historical value eventually."

"If the historians want it," said Saber, "I think they're going to have to get it for themselves."

But Morley was right. And Charlie suspected that if they all came through this, if the nation survived, and the world went on, there'd eventually be an attempt to recover the Micro. He could visualize it standing one day in the Smithsonian. Of course, the prospects for that might depend on what kind of president it had rescued. Nobody would have gone far to recover a James Buchanan artifact.