Moonfall

CLINTON RETURNS TO WHITE HOUSE FOR EDUCATION BILL CEREMONY

78-Year-Old Former President Applauds Bipartisan Effort

"This Time We Must Make It Work" San Francisco. 9:31 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time (12:31 P.M. EDT).

Jerry Kapchik was chief of the personal tax branch for Bennett amp; McGee accountants. He was young and energetic, and was on the inside track for the department manager's job when it would become vacant at the end of the summer. Jerry made friends easily, enjoyed Wednesday night bridge at the club, and was a rabid 49ers fan. Life was good. But the host on the radio in his office was talking about the comet, and his listeners were calling in and saying things were a lot worse than anybody knew. Get away from the ocean, they were saying.

Jerry wasn't much inclined to take his talk shows seriously. But one of the file clerks had gotten a call from home and asked for the rest of the day off. Before she left, she told Jerry that the situation wasn't good, and she didn't think she'd be back next day either. "Tell you the truth, I'm getting out of town until everything blows over."

Worst possible time, of course: Filing day was Monday.

"It won't help your career," he'd warned her, but she only shrugged.

He'd wondered if she understood how absurd she looked. And it was absurd, like one of those movies about the Middle Ages where there's a comet or an eclipse and everybody falls on the ground in a panic. Still, he'd heard the reports that they might lose the Moon. It was hard to believe that pieces from the Moon could fall all the way into San Francisco Bay. But what did he know?

For Jerry, the world was a happy place. He'd learned from his father to make sure he lived in the present and not exclusively in the future. So he took time to smell the roses. He had Marisa, two bright kids, a lovely Tudor home in Pacifica, a clutch of orange trees, a two-car garage, a perfect lawn, a playhouse for the kids, and a healthy bank account. The only thorn in his side was a series of allergies against which he was constantly taking medication.

He could see the Bay from his office window. It was a beautiful, sun-splashed day. A few sails were sprinkled across the calm blue sea, and a freighter moved against the horizon. It was impossible to believe anything was amiss. But he wondered whether it wouldn't be a good idea to put some things in the cars, to get ready to clear out. Just in case. Micro Flight Deck. 12:36 P.M.

Tony needed two orbits instead of one to achieve rendezvous with Berlin. The Micro came up from behind and off the port quarter. The sight of the big SSTO ahead, its wings and tail fins gleaming in the sun, introduced a surreal quality to the moment. It was like the automobile commercials that show a small family van jouncing across a cratered moonscape.

He exchanged greetings with the pilot, and turned docking over to the onboard computer. Then he activated the PA. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "as you can see if you look out the right-hand windows, we've caught up with your ticket home. It's going to take a while, though, before we can hook up with her. As you're aware, the space plane has been running a little behind, and we've come in on a course that's going to require some maneuvering on our part. It'll probably be forty minutes or so before we dock. So just relax. If you need to go to the rest room or leave your seat for any reason, this is a good time. Once we begin to move, we'll want everyone buckled down. I'll be putting on the warning light shortly. Enjoy your flight home."

"You know," said Saber, "these people are going to be on that plane a long time. It'll be thirty-some hours before departure. Plus whatever the flight time is to Skyport."

"Yeah," said Tony. "I hope they brought a lot of sandwiches."

Saber made a face. "I hope they have good ventilation."

The computer announced a countdown to the maneuvering sequence. Tony went down into the passenger cabin and affected a studied casualness with the passengers. He had sensed during boarding that some of them were uneasy, and he wanted to reassure them that nothing unusual, and certainly nothing dangerous, was going on here.

The Micro would move into a position perpendicular to the space plane's long axis. That wasn't a problem for the computers, but it presented a point of view guaranteed to sicken the passengers. He explained that they might experience some queasiness if they watched the operation, and suggested they draw the blinds on their windows. When one of the fathers tried to do so, his son complained loudly. The father backed off, but picked up a magazine and buried his head in it.

Tony returned to the flight deck for the approach. The autopilot made a minor adjustment to the intercept course, using a series of short bursts from the main engine. Then it began firing the attitude jets in a long, complicated sequence.

This was the first time since the faulty valve had been installed that extensive maneuvering was required.

The Micro rotated and brought the docking port into line. Its sensors scanned the SSTO while the onboard computer communicated with its counterpart on the space plane and compared the Micro's actual and ideal approach attitudes. Meantime, unburnt fuel again leaked out of the twelfth jet.

It was in the form of a fine haze, which began to interfere with the sensors, introducing a degree of uncertainty, and occasionally of contradiction, into their readings. The onboard computer, trying to compensate for the contradictions, fired and then refired the jets, pumping still more powdered aluminum into the Micro's immediate environment.

Tony gradually noticed the unusual activity. He frowned, but assigned it to the fact that they'd changed the flight plan and had come at the plane at less than an ideal angle. He was puzzling over it when Saber called his attention to the radar returns.

The space plane's image on the display had lost its sharpness. The returns were still timed right, but they'd begun to fade in and out.

"What's going on?" he asked, running a quick instrument check. Everything seemed okay.

The jets fired again. Stars burned in wisps of fog. Saber shook her head. "Something's wrong," she said.

Tony finally saw the gray haze of powdered aluminum just as the fuel warning lamp lit up again. He checked his board. The radar returns were getting worse, spreading out all over the screen.

"We've got a burst line somewhere," said Saber.

The radar screen was becoming pure soup.

He switched to manual and looked out into a sheet of fog. "Where's the goddam plane?" They'd been within fifty meters, but now it was lost in the haze, invisible to both their eyes and their scanners. He opened a channel. "Berlin, this is the Micro. We have a problem."

Static. Then the pilot's voice. Tony could make out only a few words over the interference: "… read you, Micro… drifting… advise."

"Can't see a thing." Saber switched from screen to screen. Everything had clouded over. The viewports now looked like poorly silvered mirrors.

Tony went to manual and tried the radio again. The transmission broke up completely. He needed to get away from the cloud, but he was too close to the plane to try his main engine. If he guessed wrong…

"What do we do?" asked Saber.

"I hope they can see us," he said. "We stay put, and let him pull away."