19
GET 05:32
Flax was washing down his Maalox with black coffee and it was not doing him any good at all. His gut rumbled continually and sent out sudden gusts of flame like a volcano about to blow up. Not only that but the coffee was going right to his bladder and he forgot the last time he had been to the John so he felt as if he had a full basketball down there. But he couldn't leave the console now.
“Listen, Patrick, we need this.” He was pleading and he knew it. “You were out of contact for almost forty minutes there, it was only the readouts from the bio-sensors that let us even know you were there at all. And when Kuznekov cut his umbilicals I'll tell you things were hairy down here. And you haven't had the TV cameras broadcasting more than a total of fifteen minutes the entire flight.”
“We have had some problems, Mission Control.”
“I know that — and I'm not making light of them in any way. But the situation here, without going into many details, demands your aid. We need that broadcast, Patrick — desperately.”
“I read you, Flax, and I'm getting agreement here. Before we repressurize the flight deck I'll give you a shot out of the hatch. Stand by, Mission Control.”
Flax sighed and leaned back, hooking his thumbs inside the front of his belt and pulling outward, relieving some of the pressure on his bladder. He took a sip of coffee. He could see the display below him on the TV monitor console, a breaking up signal and picture that quickly was put under control. He switched the picture to his own TV screen and switched his phone through to the network liaison console.
“We have a picture, Bob, what's your status?”
“All networks vamping and ready to take our broadcast.”
“Tell them to stand by. Sixty seconds.”
A light blinked on his board and he flipped the switch beside it; the voice sounded in his earphone. “Mr. Flax, I have Mr. Dillwater on the line for you…”
“He'll have to hold.”
“But…”
“You heard me. I'll get back to him as soon as this broadcast from Prometheus is over. I'm sure he will understand that.” He switched off the voice before there could be any response, and nodded approval as the picture on his screen steadied and the hatch loomed large, then vanished and the Earth, as seen from space, appeared on the screen.
“We're receiving a perfect picture, Patrick. Just hold it there please. The networks are standing by, are you ready to go?”
“Roger.”
“Give them the signal,” he ordered, and saw himself, small on the screen, from the network camera to the rear of Mission Control.
“Switching over now to the camera on Prometheus. There, you can see it now, the Earth from the open hatch. Major Winter is holding the camera and is moving it now. Over to you, Prometheus.”
“That's Earth as we see it, plenty of cloud. We are now ending our third orbit and, I don't know if you can make it out through the cloud, but we are going over the Pacific with Peru just coming up, the air is clear there. I'm going to move the camera.. just a moment.. there, you can see the detached core body. It's in orbit behind us at a bearing of about fifteen degrees.”
Flax pressed one of the buttons on his console. “Kill the sound to the networks, but keep the picture. Tell them it's a technical difficulty.” He switched back to Prometheus. “Hello, Prometheus. A good picture, great commentary,
Patrick. What I'm saying now is not going out to the networks. Do you see that spot of light just to the left of the booster?”
“Affirmative.”
“Is it…?”
“Yes, it's Colonel Kuznekov. He's also following us in orbit. And before you ask — the answer is no. I'm not going to zoom in on his corpse or anything like that.”
“Just a report, that's all I ask.”
“You've had that already. I'm going to give you about one minute more of this then close the hatch and pressurize. We have work to do.”
“Going live again,” he sighed and gave the signal.
“The core body will gradually drop behind us in this orbit until it is brought back to Earth for a soft landing. In the cabin now, I'll hand the camera to Major Kalinina while I close this hatch. Once we're pressurized we can begin preparations for orbital firing.”
The picture jumped around as the camera was passed over. Flax groaned to himself and wondered if his bladder really would burst. A light flickered on and he threw the switch.
“Mr. Dillwater insists on talking with you, Mr. Flax.”
“A few moments more.”
“He's not waiting. He's gone into Mission Control.”
“Damn!” Flax disconnected and turned his chair about. There he was all right, the dark figure just entering the upper tier. It had to be him, the only man in Texas in the summer who wore a dark suit — with a vest. Striding steadily, right up to the console.
“Mr. Flax, your presence is required in the press conference chamber.”
“Mr. Dillwater, I wish I could, but as I told you on the phone I can't leave this position now. The atomic engine…”
“Your assistant controller will take over. I have flown to Houston from Washington for this conference which I could have done just as well from there. The venue is here for your benefit. I realize your worth, Mr. Flax, and commend your attention to duty. But if you do not come with me now your assistant will take over and you will be relieved of your duties and will no longer be an employee of NASA. Do I make myself clear?”
Flax, for the first time in his life, could think of nothing to say. The seconds ticked by dumbly and he realized that there was nothing he could really argue about. Realistically, he could take a break now as the flight cabin was repressurized and they removed their suits, he had the time. “Spendlove, take over,” he said, then took off his headset and threw it onto the console before him. “I'll come with you, Mr. Dill-water. Only I have to go to the bathroom first.”
He heaved himself erect and thought his bladder would explode now with the pressure on it. He tried not to waddle when he walked. The men's room sign looked before him like the gates of heaven and he fell against it and pushed it open.
Dillwater was waiting when he came out — were his eyebrows elevated ever so slightly? Maybe they were, he must have set the world's peeing record, but did not feel he could explain this to Dillwater. They went to the elevator.
“Can you brief me?” Flax asked.
“It is simple enough. A New York paper broke a story a few hours ago, this morning New York time. Since then all of the media have picked it up, all over the world, and it's snowballing. Have you heard about it?”
“Just a couple of words, someone told me who was watching TV. A crackpot idea about Prometheus turning into an atom bomb. Insane!”
“I am glad you feel that way, Mr. Flax, but please save your arguments and indignation for the press. As soon as he heard the first reports President Bandin sent me here to arrange a conference to destroy these rumors before they spread. I have just spent a very uncomfortable time in a supersonic Air Force plane, so you must excuse me if my temper is short.”
“Who's here? What kind of coverage?”
“Everything and everyone. All the media. We must be on our toes and I look upon you for aid in every way.”
Flax was scared. He did not like big crowds nor did he enjoy being cross-examined by suspicious journalists. When backed into a corner he tended to squeak like a rat, which everyone enjoyed but which sapped his morale. He wished he could have a drink before he went on. There was the bar in “the office behind the conference hall. But what would Dillwater think? The hell with what he thought.
“I'm going into Jack's office for a moment,” he said turning the knob. Dillwater's eyebrows arched up.