“Those remaining outside have virtually no chance of survivaclass="underline" Earthquakes, vulcanically generated airborne toxicity, and fallout will see to that.
“Even the survival of those inside the shelters is questionable, hinging upon whether they emerge from the period of seismic violence sufficiently intact. Our seismologists and engineers hold out little encouragement. In fact, were it not for the fallout and poisonous emissions, it might be safer to attempt to ride it out on the surface.”
Teacher winding down; other speakers queuing up to augment presentation. People already converging on mockup, scanning drawings, examining robots, conversing in muted tones. I resumed seat to keep out of way.
Meeting dragged on for hours. Endless succession of hopefuls approached, put heads together, offered suggestions, argued, compared notes, eventually left, shaking heads. I passed time chatting with Gayle, Teacher too, when neither occupied.
In between, to degree possible without being pushy, I eavesdropped. And of course bent own thoughts to problem at hand. But not mechanical or electrical engineer or programmer — nor much of anything else useful for that matter. Generally kept mouth shut; self out of everyone’s way.
And worried, of course: With room for only 500 people split between two shelters — one even less likely to come through quakes than other — something on order of 6-, 700 people out in cold if mission fails. And beginning to look as if might: Robot problem no closer to solution now than when meeting began.
Wished Adam, Kim here; no idea whether might contribute or not — just missed them. And Lisa. And especially Terry. Even Tora-chan — bet he wouldn’t be allowed in shelters either: Too old; mousing, purring, lap-sitting probably not adjudged “useful skills.” Or if so, possessed by someone younger.
Despairing atmosphere infectious; reinforced own self-pity, worry over family’s, friends’ chances. Gloom deepened as person after person, expert after expert, approached with varying degrees of confidence, gave it best shot, resuming seat shortly thereafter, looking glum. Presently trickle slowed, stopped.
Teacher looked around for more. Expression betrayed depth of disappointment as realized think tank dry. Glanced at Kyril. Russian shrugged, shook head; returned to chair, sat heavily, head hanging.
Teacher rotated slowly, searching faces hopelessly. Our eyes met at exact moment -
Oh! Of course. How… obvious!
Conclusion, decision, accompanying shock, must have shown on face; for Teacher’s thoughts paralleled own, arriving at identical solution merest fraction thereafter. Have never seen anyone look so stricken. For endless seconds old Chinese gazed into, through my soul. Then set jaw, drew himself erect, eyes shining with love, pride, tears. Nodded imperceptibly; watched in silence as I rose jerkily from seat, suddenly nerveless fingers cascading stage with papers, soft-drink can, remaining munchies.
Own slow tears resumed but interfered with vision hardly at all as retrieved diagram, tucked into pocket, stepped down from stage, forced unwilling feet to propel me to mock-up.
Stepped through outer door, strode to tiny inner hatch opening, poked head through, looked around for handholds. Inserted shoulders, first one, then other. Grabbed convenient truss, pulled torso through. Hips, fanny snug fit; harbinger of Better Things To Come (pity will never find out).
Ignored suddenly buzzing audience visible through cutaway’s open side. Wormed way between hull braces to detonator site. Wiring complexity immaterial just then; yanked loose en masse.
Then produced diagram, studied briefly. Positioned self carefully on back, planted feet on either side of detonator shaft. Took firm grip. Drew long breath, released slowly; took another, whispered hysterical-strength tap trigger, and…
…PULLED!
Didn’t even require major effort. Audience gasped as shaft slid easily outward. Shortly encountered obstruction. Experimented, turning one way, then other; pulled again.
Moments later stepped out through cutaway, carrying detonator in one hand. Stunned hush marked progress back to center stage where Teacher waited, tears streaming down wrinkled cheeks. Own tears still flowed but control holding otherwise; breathing almost normal, hands steady.
Carefully set down detonator, stood, put arms around dearest friend. Marveled again how solid he felt, despite years. Held him tightly for long moments; wishing could do something to ease silent convulsions wracking him. But cause obvious, situation inescapable; we both knew it.
Released him, put hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoes, placed kiss on wet cheek.
Stepped to podium, pulled mike down within reach. Felt curiously at peace as looked out over all those people. All my people.
Surprisingly easy to get words out; voice clear, firm, unwavering as took deep breath, said, “Does anybody know how to take in a spacesuit?”
Well, not quite that simple, of course. Even after predictably outraged debate over including 11-year-old in suicide mission faded before dearth of alternate suggestions, practical difficulties remained:
Among which, spacesuit more complicated to “take in” than pair of jeans. Principal challenges: one-piece plastic bubble helmet; neck, waist sealing rings; portable life-support-system package; aluminum frame surrounding chest, hips — all rigid; all products of elaborate engineering, exacting manufacturing procedures; all exceeding 9-by-14 hatch dimensions by substantial margins, even in smallest of three available sizes.
But given no opportunity to follow tailors’ progress; had own problems: Rushed immediately into astronaut training (immediately: that night — only six days remaining in which to master necessary skills).
See: Launch one of mission’s more critical stages; process rife with opportunities for sabotage. Original crew consisted of one seasoned NASA shuttle pilot, one experienced civilian test pilot, one Bratstvo defector. Assigning two most experienced pilots to do flying permitted tactfully glossing over fact that Kyril, still not entirely trusted, was being kept away from vital equipment. My presence unavoidably sundered gentlemanly façade: Minimum personnel boiled down to one pilot, one bomb expert, one husky midget. Retaining original copilot not fuel efficient: only valid criterion.
Which left rosy-cheeked grammar-school refugee (big-time ultralight jockey) sitting in simulator’s right-hand chair, reading off checklists, updating on-board computers, responding to CRTs, flipping switches right and left, watching gauges — trying to ignore fact that eminently qualified engineer/computer-scientist/jet-pilot cooling heels in deactivated mission specialist’s chair just aft: patently so much dead weight.
Bothered me so much at first, finally took Kyril aside at break, planted foot squarely in mouth trying to apologize for being promoted over him. However, Russian promptly set mind at ease, using charming, sideways-fractured social English (love listening to him, though sometimes wonder if deliberate [technical syntax flawless]).
Kyril completely in agreement with assignments as posted; understood hominems’ reservations about sincerity — would insist upon same precautions were positions reversed. Bore absolutely no resentment toward me for “usurping” role, nor anyone else for that matter. Suggested I forget disparity in ages, backgrounds; concentrate on job — predicted would find quite enough to occupy attention without manufacturing needless concerns.
Might have had trouble buying sincerity even then had not he broken off pep talk midword, startled me by impulsively taking my hands in his, expression desperately earnest, saying, “Candy, Harris is being ex-Marine pilot fighter: chubby-hearted, compellsive hero. He goes consequencely he knows he is best; could not be living with himself should mission boom out through flub of one less adequate sitting in his shoes. My justify are resembling: My proficiency of bomb is excelling. And I am at culp.