This has been a bizzare day. Unproductive and disturbing, but especially strange!
There’s still no sign of Candy after nine days — unless you count the inexplicable conduct involving Lisa and Terry, which I find very difficult to credit.
Adam doesn’t believe it at all. He’s quit putting up a brave front; he hasn’t smiled practically since we got here, and now he’s almost stopped talking. He continues to search, grimly, determinedly, refusing to admit the possibility of defeat, but without hope.
Lisa isn’t very cheerful anymore, either. She says that Candy is frightened and has been growing more so daily. She doesn’t know why, but it scares her as well.
Actually, none of us are too spritely. It’s as though some sort of pall has settled over the forest. I’ve been having this growing sense of impending doom for days now. I try not to let it show around Lisa, but every day it gets harder.
And Terry’s behavior steadily becomes more unusual. This morning he launched into a monologue before sunup. I heard it from the beginning — ever since having Lisa, any unusual sound wakes me instantly. And this, even compared to his normal behavior these days, and apart from the hour he started, was unusual.
It began with a singsong voice in the darkness: “Control, this is Nathan Hale. Radio check.”
“Wha — huh? Now what?” muttered Adam sleepily from the bedroom.
“Roger, loud and clear,” came the disembodied reply.
Adam grumbled something about “dumb bird!” I heard his feet hit the floor. “I guess he means it. Well, the sun will be up soon. Might as well get up and eat so we can get going at first light.” He stumbled from the bedroom and turned on a light; I shielded my eyes against the sudden glare.
Terry perched on one foot on his stand, eyes squinting, head tilted back slightly and sunk between his shoulders. He looked rather grumpy, as if we had waked him. “Inertial measurement unit alignment in progress,” he said, yawning.
“This is a new wrinkle.” I yawned back, stretching, standing, then folding the bed back into a sofa. I didn’t wake Lisa, asleep on the converted dinette; at her age, she needs all the sleep she can get. Time enough when breakfast was almost on the table. “But sounds familiar somehow, doesn’t it?”
“Uh-huh, I have heard this somewhere before,” Adam replied, fumbling out cooking utensils and dishes. “But I can’t think where. You want in the bathroom first?”
“Boiler control switch on. Nitrogen supply switch on.”
“No; you cooked yesterday. You go first; I’ll start breakfast.”
“Hey…” Adam called from the bathroom after a while; “I know why that sounds familiar. Have you ever watched a shuttle launch on television?”
“You’re right. Golly, doesn’t that bird ever forget anything?” Something tugged at my memory. For a moment it eluded me. Then I had it: “Adam, I don’t remember a shuttle named Nathan Hale, do you?”
“No.”
A brief silence ensued, interrupted as Terry continued: “APUs powered up.”
“Me either. This is his eeriest performance yet.”
“Amen.”
Adam emerged from the bathroom and regarded the bird in perplexity. “I hate it when he does stuff like this. It’s positively scary. He smiled faintly. “But he certainly has the patter down perfectly. He makes me want to rush to the nearest television and watch.”
“Me too.” I could have kissed the silly goose; that was the first time Adam had smiled in days.
Perching relaxed on one leg, eyes half-closed, head tilted back slightly and sunk between his shoulders, Terry droned on: “Main engine gimbals nominal.”
Adam sat on the couch. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Oh-two vents closing. H-two pressurization okay — going for launch…”
“Pancakes, bacon and eggs, cocoa, and orange juice,” I replied.
“APU start is go,” said Terry.
“Nectar of the gods,” Adam approved.
“The on-board computer is on the job.”
“I wonder how long he’s going to keep it up,” Adam mused. “He’s just about through the launch sequence, if memory serves.”
“Five, four — main engine start — two, one…”
“That long.” I grinned.
“…zero — solid booster ignition — LIFT-OFF…!” Terry shrilled the last two words, voice cracking, flapping violently.
Lisa shot bolt upright in bed and screamed. Her eyes stared, round and unseeing. She clutched at the bed as if to steady herself.
“Wow…!” Terry was bobbing his head now; even I could recognize the manic delight in his expression. “Wow…!” he squealed again; “we’re boldly going…!”
Lisa’s eyes cleared and focused as I reached her. She looked around dazedly. Then she closed her eyes again and — I swear! — she looked around inside the lids. “Gee,” she breathed. “I thought I was dreaming. This is neat!”
Adam caught my eye. His brow crooked.
“Instituting roll,” offered Terry.
“Lisa, honey,” I said gently, “what’s happening?”
She didn’t answer for whole minutes. Finally I shook her gently. “Lisa?”
She opened her eyes. The faraway look was back.
“Main engine throttle-back,” said Terry.
“Lisa?”
“Max Q.,” said Terry.
“We’re going fast,” came the dreamy reply.
“What…?” said Adam, eyeing her sharply.
Now I regretted not having discussed with him my previous conversations with her on this subject. I shook my head quickly and intensely, indicated Lisa behind her back, and caroled, “We can talk about it lay-ter.”
“Main engines back up to 100 percent.”
Adam caught on but didn’t look pleased. He stared across at Terry, still bobbing and flapping, and then down at Lisa’s closed eyes and entranced expression.
“Solid booster separation,” said Terry helpfully.
Adam’s expression was a study in confusion and misery, untouched by hope. “We sure will,” he muttered darkly.
VOLUME V
Revelation
Damn! — hope this turns out legible. Easier things to do than trying to write Pitman shorthand while floating weightless in dark, scared to death, sole illumination furnished by flashlight wedged between hull braces, hand gripping pen encased in bulky EMU glove and possessing every reason to shake.
Never been so terrified in whole short, violence-prone life. Still not afraid of death per se — though if guessed wrong (as well may have, with limited data on which forced to make decision) impending demise promises to be painful enough to satisfy fantasies of even most demanding masochist.
No; fear based upon possibility might have guessed even wronger; in which case probably won’t be physically painful at alclass="underline" Instead will have several hours in which to dwell on consequences sure to befall family, friends — all my people.
Would accept eternity of physical torture to keep that from happening.
Yes, Posterity, it’s me again: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, adventuress, aviatrix, heroine at large — would-be Plucky Girl Savior Of Our People — at your service.
So what’s nice girl like me doing in place like this? Kind of thought that might be next question. Sweating, that’s what — and trembling like leaf.
Plus working feverishly to complete account of past four days in wan hope that at least this record will survive next few hours; alert hominem community to continuing existence of implacable threat to species’ very survival.