Harry Harrison
Skyfall
1
BAIKONUR — USSR
“Christ. . it's big,” Harding said in a hoarse whisper. “I didn't think anything could be that big.”
Big was too small a word. A gleaming skyscraper in the flat plain; a windowless tower of metal that dwarfed the buildings round it. Not a building; a spacecraft. 20,000 tons that would soon roar flame from its engines, shudder and rise, at first slowly then faster and faster, and soar arrow-like into space. The largest spacecraft men had ever built or dreamed of.
Large as their four-engined jet was, it was dwarfed to insignificance. It was a fly buzzing round a steeple. Here were the six gleaming boosters, each of them identical, each larger than the largest American spacecraft ever built. In flight the outer five would drop away once their fuel had been expended, leaving the central core booster to hurtle on with the payload. But payload was too trivial a word for this Prometheus; Prometheus the mortal who stole fire from the gods and brought it back to Earth, now Prometheus the machine that would circle the Earth 22,300 miles up, would reach out silver arms and seize the sun's energy and hurtle it down to Earth. The answer to mankind's energy problem, the ultimate solution that would supply unlimited power. Forever.
This was the plan. The enormity of it was driven home to Patrick Winter now by the sheer size of Prometheus. When his aircraft had completed its circle he straightened the wheel and eased it forward, dropping towards the waiting runway. But his mind wasn't completely on his task and he was a good enough pilot to know it.
“Bring her in, will you, Colonel?” he asked.
Harding nodded and took control. He knew what the other man was thinking. Like an afterimage the memory of that burnished metal tower hung before him too. He brushed it away and concentrated; the multiple wheels touched down and he reversed thrust on the engines, braked and slowed. Only when they were rumbling along the taxiway towards the buildings did he speak.
“And you're going to fly that son-of-a-bitch?”
It was halfway between a statement and a question, perhaps a suspicion that something as big as that couldn't ever lift off the ground. Patrick heard the tone and understood; he grinned slightly as he unbuckled and stood.
“Yes, I'm going to fly that son-of-a-bitch.”
He went back to the main cabin and L. J. Flax signaled him to come over. Flax sat on the couch, lolling back, the telephone handset almost lost in his big hand. Flax normally didn't enjoy flying because he was too cramped. Over six feet tall, he must have been over six feet around the middle as well; with his legs wide apart he filled the couch. He had a tendency to sweat and his shaven, bald skull was dotted with droplets.
“Yes, all right,” he said in his clear, ever-so-slightly accented English. “Keep the line to them open. I'll call again as soon as formalities are over.” He could have been talking to anywhere in the world. Air Force One had the communications capacity of an aircraft carrier. Flax hung up the phone and pushed it away, scowling unseeingly at the window.
“Still under observation but the medics seem to agree that it's appendicitis,” he said. “They'll operate in a couple of hours. Wonderful. You'd think a doctor would take better care of himself. Why the hell should a doctor get appendicitis?” He shook his head in unbelief, his loose jowls flapping.
“Maybe you don't believe it, Flax, but doctors have appendixes too.” Patrick stood in front of the full-length mirror and knotted his tie. At thirty-seven he didn't look too bad. An Apollo next to Flax — but then anyone was. His gut was still flat and he exercised enough to stay in shape. Handsome enough so that girls didn't run away screaming, although his jaw was on the large size and his hairline had a tendency to creep a little higher every year. He pulled the knot tight and reached for his jacket. “And Kennelly does have a backup. We've all worked with Feinberg and he'll do the job all right.”
“Ten will get you twenty he never shows,” Ely Bron said.
Ely was sitting by the window, his long nose in a book — its usual position — and hadn't appeared to be listening. But he had the maddening ability of being able to read and talk at the same time. He could win an argument and remember every word of the chapter he had read while doing it. He turned a page.
“What's the bet?” Patrick asked. “Feinberg's our only backup medic. He has to show.”
“Really? Then let's see your ten spot.”
“It's a bet,” Flax said. “Do you know something we don't, Ely?”
“Know, guess, ear to the wall. It's the same thing.”
“I'll take another ten if you're throwing your money away,” Patrick said. He buttoned his uniform jacket and brushed some invisible dust from his major's oakleaves. It was probably ten bucks thrown away since Dr. Ely Bron had a way of usually being right about things and of winning bets. And he would let you know too. Patrick tried hard to like his nuclear physicist colleague but was aware that he did not always succeed.
“Let's go,” Flax said, heaving his bulk to his feet as they slowed and stopped. “Band, guard of honor, politicians, usual crap.”
“Is it good afternoon or good evening?” Patrick asked, looking at his watch.
“Dobry Vyecher is good at any time,” Flax said. “Or Zdractvootye.”
Through the open door came the first notes of the Star Spangled Banner, slightly off key and with the beat wrong, sounding more like a Russian folk song than the siege of Fort McHenry. The ranked batteries of cameras clicked when they appeared at the head of the stairs, and the reception party stepped forward. There were some mercifully brief speeches of welcome, in Russian, followed by equally brief statements of pleasure at being able to come — then it was inside for the vodka and caviar. And the press. Patrick was relieved that Flax fielded most of the questions, switching from Russian to Polish to German to English without hesitation. Ely Bron seemed to do just as well in French and German, no doubt learned in his spare time at MIT when he wasn't getting another master's or doctorate. Patrick had worked hard on his technical Russian and knew he could work a space flight in it — but he wasn't up to conducting any interviews. It would have to be English or nothing. A short man in a very wrinkled suit pushed through the crowd towards him. His glasses were stained and he had a tendency to spray fine droplets when he talked.
“Pilkington, World Star, London,” he said in faint cockney and pushed a microphone towards Patrick. “Major Winter, as Commander of this venture I imagine you must have very definite ideas about it. Firstly the danger…”
“I don't think venture is quite the right word.” Patrick smiled when he spoke; he had met Pilkington's type before on both sides of the Atlantic. There were reporters who wanted facts, hard news. And there were others who wrote primarily for people who moved their lips when they read. He had read World Star occasionally and thought it made ideal catbox lining, but remembered his training. “Always be nice to the press.”
“Operation Prometheus is a joint Soviet-American project that combines the specific knowledge and talents of both countries in a way that will benefit the whole world.”
“You mean the Russians are better at something than the Americans?” The microphone hovered close and Patrick, still holding his sincere smile, thought how much better it would be pushed down Pilkington's throat.
“What we're doing is beyond political or national rivalries. The Prometheus operation will supply pollution-free energy at a time when traditional sources of power are running out. Eventually it will supply this energy to every nation on the face of the earth---”
“But now only the Russians and the Americans are going to get any?”