“As I understood it,” Xander said diffidently, “the plan was to literally slingshot around the Moon and use the admittedly puny gravitational pull to fling us back homeward…”
“Yes, and then?”
Xander shrugged. “Damned if I know. After that, it’s uncharted territory. Wait and see.”
“That isn’t very reassuring.” Dave said. “I mean, if the plan is really to go home — I keep on thinking about the really appallingly non — aerodynamic nature of this rock we’re on, and the tiny problem of, uh, our pesky atmosphere and all that lovely combustible oxygen that’s just waiting for us to hit it…”
Xander scowled at him. “Et tu, Dave?” he said “Seriously, I think the one thing that we can do right now — the one thing that we have to do, because there really isn’t any choice here — is to frigging stop applying any known laws of physics to whatever is happening to us right now. Only thus can we sail through this with our sanity intact. Stop trying to explain it, and just knuckle down and enjoy the ride.”
“But I can’t help thinking…”
“Listen,” Xander said, “here’s a few salient facts I seem to have stashed away in my brain about Apollo 8 — for some reason that one stuck far more than Number Eleven did, it’s, like, the first time we got there at all, the guys from Eleven just got to step on to the welcome mat and open the door but Eight was the first time we came to take a close look at the place and somehow… I know… it’s irrational, but it’s the first time we looked into the Moon’s eyes, close up, and it’s then that you fall in love…”
“Good grief, Xander. I never knew you were capable of waxing lyrical about this. Next thing, you’ll tell me you write moon poetry.”
“Sorry, no poetry. But still — stuff stuck with me, from Apollo 8. Like, for instance, the entire mission took something like — what was it again — a hundred and forty seven hours, all told, or something like that. Which works out to — what — about six days. But that’s including about a day’s worth of spinning around the Moon, so let’s call it two — and — a–bit days there and two — and — a–bit days back. At something like 25,000 miles an hour. That’s according to the laws of physics as we know them. You cannae change the laws of physics, as the holy writ says, but Scotty did frequently and oh, look, so did our android overlords. We’re reaching the Moon in less than half the time it took Apollo to do it, which means we’re travelling at fifty thousand freaking miles an hour, but we’ve got comfy gravity and nobody’s pressed up against the floor or the ceiling with their faces squashed flat by gravitational acceleration pressure, and… just stop, would you? My brain hurts trying to get it all figured out and it’s all meaningless anyway because they aren’t playing by the rules we know.”
“Uh,” Dave said. “That makes me feel a whole lot better. Not.”
“I’ve spies out there who are contracted to come screaming to me if anything really awful happens tonight,” Xander said. “Not that there is much we can do about it, understand, but we’ll be kept informed.”
“Are you sure it isn’t time for a colorful metaphor right about now, Captain?” Dave said.
“Stop it, Cranky,” Andie Mae said, grinning. “Come on up to Callahan’s and have an early drink while you wait for zero hour. That’s the best viewing vantage, all those picture windows up there on the twentieth floor, best seats in the house. And remember, it’s a closed party up there. ConCom and guests, tonight. Invitation only. No crowds and no loonies. Stop worrying. You won’t change anything. Come on, let’s go.”
“I’ll meet you there in a bit,” Xander said. “I think I’m going to do a circuit first, see how the hoi polloi are doing down here. Yes, yes, I know, what will be will be and the droids are pulling their magic trick so that nobody goes for a spacewalk tonight — but I’m going to do a round anyway. Just because.”
“Should be me,” Andie Mae said, sounding contrite. “I should at least come with you. I’m the one who’s ultimately responsible for…”
“Ego te absolvo,” Xander said, going full Black Friar and making a sweeping sign of the cross over her. “Go, I’ll catch up.”
Most of the ConCom and the Green Room volunteers took that as a signal for departure; two stayed, just in case of any real emergencies, so that the rest of the con would have a point of contact with the committee, but the rest all piled out and headed across to Tower 2, the tallest tower of the resort, and the elevators to the bar on the top floor, voices rising in excitement. Xander peeled off and made for Tower 3 — which, incongruously, housed both the party wing of the convention (spread across the two lowest floors) and Dr. Cohen’s makeshift infirmary for the temporarily mindblown, safely sequestered from the rest of the convention and with at least three of Simon’s security people on duty at all access points to that floor in case some reveler in his cups attempted a breach of the perimeter. Xander was starting to have an uncomfortable feeling that this set — up — which had seemed perfectly adequate when first mooted — might crumble dangerously this night. All it would take was for somebody from the party floors to suggest that the party — goers would have a better view from an upstairs room, and if enough of them tried to claim such a room Simon’s troops could be overwhelmed.
Xander tapped his earpiece.
“Simon,” he said, “can you hear me?”
“Yo,” the Security Chief said into his ear, crackling a little.
“I was just thinking — about Tower 3 — ”
“Way ahead of you. The praetorian guard has been reinforced tonight, us and the hotel people, we’re on it.”
“You’re going to miss it all,” Xander said unexpectedly. “Aren’t you?”
“I’ll make a plan,” Simon said. “We’ll try and let everyone have at least a glimpse of it. The hotel crew knows that we’ll all be taking at least a short leave of absence sometime tonight — but we’ll try and stagger it so that there is always a full complement of people on duty. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure everyone gets their moon shot.”
“Okay, then,” Xander said. “Call me if you have any problems.”
“Will do. Enjoy. Over and out.”
The party floor was jumping when Xander got there. It was, by now, more one huge party than anything confined to any one room. People were spilling from open doorway to open doorway, laughing and dancing. One of the rooms on the first floor had been set up as a makeshift Karaoke room, and just as Xander happened to be passing by in the corridor outside, one guy who was tipsy enough to have lost all inhibitions but not yet drunk enough to lose any native ability was doing a really quite passable version of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” to a large and appreciative audience who were joining in from time to time as they snatched at a familiar phrase from the lyrics and sang along.
“Heyyy, Xander!” One of the people from the Karaoke room, close to the exit, had happened to glance outside and spot Xander hovering in the corridor, listening in. “Wanna come in and try one?”
“I don’t think you’d appreciate me singing,” Xander said, with a grin.