“From what Tominbang said, that’s a distinct possibility.”
“How can we launch tonight if he’s not here?”
“He’s not making the trip.”
“Given the situation, I’m not sure I’m making the trip.” In fact, I was, at that moment, quite and sure I wasn’t. I was two minutes away from making a hasty departure from Tehachapi-Kern.
“Well, Cash, as you know: without you, there is no flight to the Moon.” He smiled to take the edge off what was clearly a threat: “I’d hate to have to kidnap you.”
“In that case,” I said, “when do we leave?”
Dearborn clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit!”
Seeing one last opportunity to put an end to this madness, I said, “Can we operate Quicksilver with a crew of two?”
“Operate, yes. But the mass properties have been very finely calibrated to your talents, Co-pilot. We’ve got to have a certain amount of mass in that right-hand seat. And, given that we can probably use the extra hands on the Moon, I’d rather not just fill it with a sack of cement.”
Just then, Bacchus walked in, brought by Eva-Lynne. “You wanted to see me?” the joker physicist said.
“Yeah, how much do you weigh?”
“In the mornings I mass 185 pounds,” Bacchus said, his voice like a hiccup. “By evening that decreases to around 182, depending on my fluid intake-”
Dearborn held up his hand. I could have told him that with Bacchus, there was no such thing as a short answer to a direct question. “Sorry. That puts us over our weight limit-”
Before I could even think it, much less say it, Eva-Lynne announced, “One hundred and twenty pounds.”
“What’s that?” Dearborn said.
“How much I weigh.”
Bacchus snorted. Dearborn and I looked at each other.
“Do you know what we’re talking about?” I said.
“Going to the Moon, Cash.” As if she were talking about a drive to Barstow, or possibly as far as Las Vegas.
“Can we take a girl to the Moon?” I asked.
“I don’t know about you, Co-pilot, but I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have along.” He grinned at me and Eva-Lynne. “Let’s kick the tires and light this candle.”
It was the evening of Friday, December 20. I realized that Christmas was only a few days away, and I had bought nothing for anyone-not even Eva-Lynne.
Dearborn and I struggled into our pressure suits. Eva-Lynne, after spending several precious moments wrapping her blond tresses into some kind of braid, wore hers as if she were born to it. I said as much as we walked toward Quicksilver. “This suit is nothing, compared to a girdle.”
Thinking of women’s undergarments triggered another worry: “Uh, what are you doing to do about… sanitary matters?”
Eva-Lynne stifled a laugh, and motioned me close. “I helped raise a dozen babies, Cash. I know how to make a diaper!” My curiosity more than satisfied, I was about to climb into Quicksilver’s cockpit when she added, too loudly for my taste, “What are you guys using? Can-o-pees?”
Dearborn was already in the forward seat as I strapped into the left rear position. Then Eva-Lynne wedged herself into the one to my right-Tominbang’s former seat.
Sobel was about to close the airlock hatch when he leaned in, agitated. “Bikers are storming the gates!” he said. “What should I do?”
“Lock the damned door and take cover,” Dearborn growled. He had already started the engine.
Sobel froze with indecision for a long moment. Then, apparently deciding that Dearborn ’s order made sense, gave me his hand. “Good luck! Bring back some green cheese!”
He wiggled out of sight and closed the hatch behind him. We heard several clicks as the latches fired, and we were sealed in.
“One minute,” Dearborn said. “Hold on, people. You’re going to take the ride of your lives!”
Eva-Lynne reached back to take my hand. I felt no fear: I was too convinced of Dearborn ’s luck to think I could be killed in his presence. But I felt trapped in the pressure suit, my movements hampered.
Spang! Something struck Quicksilver! “What was that?” Eva-Lynn said.
“I think the SOBs are shooting at us,” Dearborn said. “Hang on, we’re go.” And go we were-
For perhaps a hundred yards down the runway. Even with my limited visibility, I could see the flashes of bullets striking the pavement in front of us. Then one of them struck home, making the cockpit ring. Then I heard hissing.
Red warning lights erupted on Dearborn ’s console. A bell sounded. “Goddammit,” he snapped. With inhuman-or joker-calm, he tried to stop our rollout. The whole vehicle shook as we skidded off the runway. Only then did I realize just how fast we’d been going.
Quicksilver slewed to the left and slammed into something immobile. Eva-Lynne and I were thrown to the left; I hit the bulk-head, though my harness and suit protected me from injury. Eva-Lynne seemed to be fine.
Not so Dearborn. Perhaps his harness had been loose. In any case, he had hit the instrument panel. He was breathing hard, waving weakly at the two of his with a free hand, “Get out!”
I obeyed, hitting the emergency egress switch on the canopy. It flew off with a muffled thump! The next few moments were chaotic as I unstrapped, helped Eva-Lynne, and got both of us out of Quicksilver.
Lights blinded us. Shadowy figures boiled out of the darkness, swarming over Quicksilver and Dearborn like insects.
Eva-Lynne and I were hustled to our feet, and half-dragged to the hangar building. I still had my helmet on, so sounds were muffled and vision was impaired. I saw some of the Quicksilver team members lined up against the wall, hands (or, in the case of Kafka, pincers) in the air, as beefy nats and jokers in the black leathers of Hell’s Angels held them at gunpoint.
I saw Sobel lying face-down on the ground just outside the hangar, a trail of blood marking the path of his death crawl.
We were shoved into the same equipment room where poor Sobel had helped us into our suits not an hour earlier. We barely had time to catch our breath when Mr. Skalko entered, accompanied by several of his thugs. “You,” he said, pointing to me. “Out.”
I was hauled to my feet and essentially stripped of my suit. Then, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and shorts, I was marched out of the hangar. Dearborn and Eva-Lynne remained behind.
“You cut it a little close,” Mr. Skalko said.
“Tominbang moved up the launch.” I’m sure I sounded angry, because I was. I had assumed that Skalko would take action once he knew the Quicksilver launch was imminent. I hadn’t expected that action to be a mob shootout.
“I know that now. Good thing for you.” I’m sure Skalko knew all about Tominbang’s plans. For one thing, he had surely interrogated the poor man. For another, I doubt I was his only spy inside the program. “Kind of a shame,” he said. He actually sighed. “I was still thinking about it when you called.”
“Why did you stop it? The money?”
Mr. Skalko looked at me with amusement. “You mean, what he stole?”
“Yes.”
“I deal with stuff like that all the time. No, I had to kill this whole idea. Going to the Moon.”
Now I was as intrigued as I was angry. “Why would you care?”
“One flight means nothing. It’s what happens after the flight.” He looked at me as if weighing my worthiness. Apparently I was found worthy. “Once you’ve proven you can do this, other people will follow. They’ll build a little outpost up there. Then a bigger one. Then a whole damn city.
“And to service that city, they will have a regular system of transportation that I can’t control.” He stood there, in the darkness of a desert night, looking at the stars. “Things will come into this country that I can’t stop. That would be bad for my business.”