Now the road straightened as it climbed onto the limestone ridge above the town. Meadows and farms on all sides, slashed through by the motorway that made the new town possible. Then the town itself. He knew the old village was still down there, at least a part of it, but it could not be seen until you were right on top of it. The towers of the blocks of flats dominated the scene, rows and rows of them like beehives.
Beyond the flats were the low white buildings of the plant. At least these were landscaped and not unattractive. The road swung around the plant and dropped so that the large chemical tanks were outlined against the sky. Painted orange. It had seemed preposterous when he first saw them, but he had discovered since that it was far easier to live with than sooty battleship gray which became more and more depressing as time passed.
The guard at the gate saluted casually, more a wave than a military greeting, and the Rolls eased to a stop before the main entrance.
“Usual time, sir?” Andrew asked.
“Only if half six is the usual time. Perhaps it should be. I've given my solemn oath that I'll be home on time. If I am not down ring the office and remind me.”
“Yes, sir. Have a good day, sir.”
“Thank you, and the same. And Andrew, if you can, keep out of the whiskey in the back. The level keeps dropping faster than my own attention should warrant.”
He turned and pushed open the glass door and went inside. A day, just like every other one, had begun.
9
“Start the countdown,” Samson Kletenik said.
As he spoke the numbers on the digital clock that hung high in front of Launch Control, unmoving until now, changed from 95:00 to 94:59.
At every console the thick countdown volumes were open to the first page, volumes thicker than usual because every instruction was in duplicate, Russian in one column, English in the other. Though all of the positions controlling fueling, engines, pumps and ancillary equipment were manned by Soviet technicians, and all flight deck instrumentation and computer monitoring by Americans, there was an interface that was not simply payload or booster. Here nationals of both countries were mixed, many times two of them at the same console monitoring each other's work, ready for the instant response that can be demanded during an operation. Prometheus had been in the planning stage long enough to give Berlitz and the Soviet equivalent plenty of time to drill languages into resisting heads. Theoretically all the technicians and engineers in Launch Control spoke both languages, for better or worse. Perhaps they were not the world's greatest conversationalists, but all were adept in the limited vocabulary of rocketry and control systems. They could work together. That they could do other things together had been obvious when a female Russian technician was returned home in an advanced state of pregnancy. Seven requests for Soviet-American marriages were in the file awaiting processing, which meant that decisions would be made after Prometheus was in orbit, not before. National cooperation was not to be strained.
Samson Kletenik was Launch Control. He was a tall, long-armed slab of a man, slow speaking and fast thinking, not given to smiling. Not that he had anything to smile about. All the years of effort of construction and assembly had reached their conclusion. Every part of the complex launch function was controlled from his console. His was the ultimate responsibility. As though to make matters worse he knew that every step of his operation was being monitored by Flax and the other Mission Control people, thousands of miles away in Houston. Once clear of the ground the responsibility could be handed over to them. But that was in the future. At this moment Kletenik was in charge, carefully throwing switches, speaking in slow and measured tones, appearing relaxed and calm.
In Mission Control in Houston Flax was neither of these. Relaxing was for afterwards, calmness was only in his voice when on the radio, a role to be played. As the launch approached closer and closer his tension grew greater. He watched the rushed order of Launch Control through the television hook-up, then looked around at his own technicians relaxed before their controls. Let them relax — he couldn't. He felt the hard knot growing in his gut, the knot he always got at this time, that never left him until splashdown and completion. While the astronauts would be enjoying ticker-tape rides and presidential hankshakes, he would be slipping through a side entrance of the Naval Hospital at Bethesda and into a private room. The doctors there would shake their heads over him and attempt to drag him back from the brink before his pre-ulcerous condition turned into a nice duodenal ulcer that would punch a hole right through his gut. It wasn't just the chain-smoked cigars, the endless cups of coffee and half-eaten sandwiches or the lack of sleep, it was that knot. He usually lost about fifteen pounds during that week in the hospital. The liquid diet was without interest and the pills, so that he wouldn't miss cigars, booze and coffee, had him asleep most of the time. Then when he came out it was a good month or two before he could be back to normal, able to enjoy lobster, champagne, Havana cigars and all the other things that contributed to a good life.
But right now the knot of tension was just beginning, a tiny little twist of anticipation that would soon turn into a burning ball of flame that would have him drinking Maalox by the gallon. Nothing had gone wrong yet — but something would, something always did. In a way waiting for it was harder than experiencing it. Would it be small, or too big for Launch Control to handle? It was with a feeling of relief that he heard the words, saw Launch Control spring into action.
“I don't have pressurization in helium anti-pogo system. No pressurization on four, until 31 down seven…”
“Do you want a hold?” Kletenik asked.
“Negative. At least not right now. We have ten minutes to clear it.”
“Stay with me and if I'm on something else let me know your condition in nine minutes.”
“Roger. Oh-chin ogay!”
An American A-OK in Russian, the new combined language of the space age, Flax thought, watching and listening, a silent spectator. And the Americans were saying vas ponyal, I understand, instead of Roger. Not a bad idea; a little peace went a long way in the world today. Mir. They could use a lot more of it, particularly in Africa where the massacres were still going on.
There was no need for a hold on the fueling. The bypass worked and the faulty valve was replaced. But this was minor, one of the expected difficulties. There was enough time built into the countdown to correct small malfunctions. Even time for more major trouble by having a hold when the clock stopped and everyone and everything waited until the problem was licked. But there could not be too many holds and they could not be too long, because there was a limited amount of time that all the complex systems could be held in readiness. Some systems had a life that could be measured in days, even hours. After this cryogenic fuels could cause unreliability. If enough holds added up an entire mission could be scrubbed. And if Prometheus were scrubbed it might be months before it would be ready to go again. Unthinkable. Years of preparation had built towards this moment, the reputations of two nations were at stake. The leaders of both were watching and the world was watching them. And they were all watching Flax. The knot tightened.