Moonfall

7.

Manhattan. 10:03 P.M.

Louise Singfield lived in a rooftop apartment in a four-story brownstone on 77th Street just off Central Park. It was perfect for a moonwatch party.

Marilyn and Larry arrived by taxi, identified themselves through the intercom, and were admitted. They rode a creaky elevator to the fourth floor and climbed a staircase the rest of the way. Louise's door opened off a narrow landing.

There was laughter inside and familiar voices. Marilyn immediately recognized Doug Cabel, Larry's boss. She didn't like Cabel, not because of anything he'd ever done, or even was, but because of the way her husband turned into a toady in his presence. Larry was a good man: He treated her well, made a decent living, didn't cheat, didn't demonstrate any major vices. Yet he seemed to be admirable for what he didn't do rather than for what he did. She'd been married three years and had come to realize that she was making do. The great romance she'd dreamed of in college, like the ones she read about every day in her job, had not happened. And now, she knew, would not happen.

Well, it could have been worse.

Louise's door opened and there stood the hostess herself. She wore a white blouse with navy collar and sleeves and navy slacks. The blouse was cut to reveal some breast. A bit much, Marilyn thought, for a casual office BYOB affair.

"Good to see you, Marilyn," Louise said, delivering a peck on the cheek. She accepted a kiss from Larry and introduced her boyfriend du jour. Mike Somebody-or-other.

Marilyn knew most of the people there. Larry's department did a lot of socializing. Doug believed it was good for morale and he encouraged it.

They contributed their bottle of Jamaica rum to the cache, made a couple of daiquiris, and went out onto the terrace. Larry paid his customary obeisance to Doug. Doug commented on this being quite a night, and then asked how the Kiplinger's report on BRK Merchandising should be handled. Or something of that nature.

The comet had grown appreciably from night to night. Now it commanded the sky east of the Moon. Nearby stars had faded, and when Marilyn walked to the far edge of the terrace, near the roof and away from the lights, she thought the illumination from the comet strong enough that she could have read by it.

Marv Taylor joined her. "Spooky, isn't it?" he said.

Marv, like Larry, was an account executive. He was quiet, introspective, gentle. His eyes were light blue, like the sky during late morning, and they seemed always amused and sad at the same time, as if he knew the truth about her. (What was the truth about her?) He was not married. There'd been a fiancee when she'd first met him. But the woman was gone and Marilyn, for reasons she did not entirely understand, had been relieved at her departure.

"Yes," she admitted. "I've never seen a sky like that."

He was not drinking. "This'll be a night to tell your grandkids about."

Marilyn tasted her daiquiri. It was strawberry. "Larry thinks it'll fizzle. He says astronomical stuff, comets specifically, always fizzle."

He smiled. "He's probably right," he said.

She looked into his eyes. Marv Taylor, I'd like very much to bed you. But she wouldn't. If she were sure she could get away with it, she'd think seriously about giving it a try. She felt entitled to one real passion during her life. But she'd get caught. Larry would know.

On the other hand, if this really turned out to be the end of the world, as some people were saying, what difference would it make? White House, Oval Office. 10:04 P.M.

The Moon wasn't visible from his windows. Henry had set up a hot line for the state governors, had resisted nationalizing the Guard (which would only serve to encourage those elements in the nation that were given to panic), had talked with the heads of state of two dozen nations, had authorized full U.S. commitment to a UN Response Team, and had gone on national television with a fireside chat, FDR-style.

He was especially good in that format. Al Kerr had told him once that he oozed sincerity. He understood that people were upset, he'd explained. They were experiencing something quite disturbing. But Americans were not among those who would give way to hand-wringing and fear-mongering. (In fact, the media, he thought, had done quite a good job at keeping a lid on things.)

Should any effects of the distant collision (he emphasized distant) be felt in the U.S.A., he assured the nation that the government was ready to act with all the power at its disposal. The military had been deployed to lend assistance in the unlikely event it might be needed. Federal agencies were standing by. And he himself would spend the evening in the White House. He was planning to watch a good movie, and expected not to be disturbed.

He added, almost as an afterthought, that Vice President Haskell was still at Moonbase. He was proud of the vice president, and the five brave Americans who had remained with him. (He'd gotten carried away here. Morley was a New Zealander; Hampton was from Senegal; the chaplain was British; and, of course, one of the two pilots of the Micro, had they been mentioned, was Russian. But let it go. The nation needed pumping up.) A rescue effort was under way even as he spoke, and he was optimistic that everyone would be brought away safely.

Al shook his hand when he was done. It had been a masterful performance. The president had spoken from his living quarters on the second floor of the West Wing. The book-lined walls, the sputtering fire (a virtual effect, actually, because the evening was unseasonably warm), the family portraits, had all lent a sense of security and tranquillity to the proceedings.

There was, of course, no movie planned for the evening.

After the broadcast, Henry had returned to the Oval Office, taken a call from UN Secretary General Elie Kopacca on an unrelated matter, and then headed down to the situation room. In the holotank, a virtual comet closed in on Mare Muscoviense. Displays portrayed the comet from a dozen different points of view. On the far side of a glass partition, a dozen operators manned computers and phones. There were uniforms everywhere. He saw Mercedes Juarez deep in conversation with the liaison from the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

The situation room was essentially a military operation, usually a relatively blase place run for the convenience of the commander-in-chief. When a crisis was in full swing, however, it could become the nation's nerve center. The officer responsible for it was Rear Admiral Jay Graboski.

Graboski was something of a crank. He didn't much like civilians, junior officers, reporters, or White House employees. He was convinced the nation was in a steep moral decline and that only military discipline, practiced across the land by all citizens and enforced by a tough national police force, would be sufficient to turn things around. He tolerated Henry Kolladner because he had to, but he was not reluctant to offer advice, usually in the guise of "cracking down" on some practice or other. For all that, Graboski was useful. He knew the equipment, its capabilities and its limitations. He never lost his head. He was brutally honest. And he had no private agenda that transcended his loyalty to the United States.

When Henry entered the area, Graboski was clustered with a couple of his lieutenants. He saw the president and came over. "Nothing's changed, sir," he said.

The clocks were counting down the last hour.

"Is the rescue effort on schedule?"

"Yes, Mr. President. The microbus made its SSTO rendezvous on the dime. They're in the descent stage now, approaching Moonbase." He went on to describe efforts on the West Coast to stock food and equipment in elevated areas.

Henry didn't care much about details. He was thinking instead about the last nine months of his term, what he hoped to accomplish, a few old scores he wanted to settle, the kind of mark he hoped to leave on history. And he was trying to calculate how tonight's events would influence all that. Whether, for example, the death of a heroic vice president would reflect well on him. Or put him into sharp contrast. After all, it might be said, the opening of Moonbase was a monumental event. The president should have been there. And how would he have behaved?

How indeed?