“All good reasons,” O'Brian said, nodding. “But I also bet you would not like to be responsible for blowing a great big hole in the landscape somewhere and maybe taking some citizens out at the same time.”
Tsander finished lighting a fresh cigarette and nodded benevolently. “Spoken in your straightforward American way. Yes, that is the crux of the matter. Wouldn't you agree, General?”
“Of course,” Bykovsky said. He paced the floor like a caged bear, hands behind his back, thinking hard. “It comes down then to two possible courses of action. We do nothing and watch the booster burn up, with the very remote possibility that there might be an impact afterwards. Or we attempt ignition and bring it down under control. Isn't there a third possibility — that if we do have ignition we just send the thing into a higher orbit for future consideration?”
“Possible, but self-defeating. If we do that we admit some possibility of danger, admit as well that we cannot control our own machines and shoot them out into space when they give us trouble.”
“Things that we do not want to admit, Academician. Therefore we really have only two choices. Do nothing and watch it burn. Do something and perhaps bring it back intact. Or, if we fail, watch it burn in any case.”
“My thoughts exactly, General,” Tsander said. “Inaction destroys the booster. Action may also destroy it — or it may be brought back for a soft landing which would be invaluable.”
“Then the answer seems obvious, wouldn't you say so, Colonel?” The General turned to face O'Brian, his head tilted slightly as though waiting expectantly for an answer.
“I would be tempted to agree,” O'Brian said slowly. “Either way the booster burns up, though one way may get it back. I cannot advise you, since obviously I am just an observer here, but you seem to have a decision on your hands.”
Tsander's eyes opened wide as he considered O'Brian's comments. “I love the unqualified qualification of your unqualified remarks,” he said dryly. “If you leave the military you have endless possibilities in politics, Colonel.”
O'Brian made a slight bow and smiled. Then it was all seriousness again.
“Time is running out, General,” Tsander said. “Do we have a decision I can act on?”
“It seems to me that the decision has been forced upon us.
We must do what we can do to bring the booster down intact. Begin retrieval program.”
There was little to be added. Tsander looked on while the others downed a last vodka, then they returned to the Ground Command Control Center. O'Brian had an office here, specially constructed for his liaison work. It was in one corner, glassed in, with readouts from most of the consoles that were grouped outside. He had a staff of six, all sergeants, and one of them was on duty here at all times. Discipline was very loose and Sergeant Silverstein just gave him a thumbs-up when he entered — and instantly typed the fact of his presence into the teletype at which he sat. It chattered back in return.
“They have been eagerly awaiting your presence, Colonel,” Silverstein said. “Washington and Houston want to know soonest status Soviet opinion re orbital soft landing capacity core body booster.”
“You mean they want to know what's going to happen to the damn thing?”
“That's about the size of it.”
“Report that attempt is now being made for complete soft landing retrieval through orbital accelerating and braking. Details follow.”
“Roger.”
The teletype hammered again while O'Brian plugged into the communication circuits. The computer outside was in direct contact with the smaller computer aboard the booster, asking questions and getting answers. The attitude of the booster was most important; which way the nose was pointing, up or down, at the stars or at the Earth, was the first consideration. Since the faulted staging from Prometheus the core body had turned and was no longer in the correct attitude for acceleration into a new orbit. The maneuvering rockets would have to be fired to adjust the attitude. This would be the first test of their ability to control the great rocket, hurtling along in orbit eighty-five miles above their heads.
“Begin program,” Academician Tsander said calmly, when everything possible had been done.
“Rolling.”
It took some minutes for all of the data to be correlated and when it had been there was jubilation in the high chamber.
“The Russkies seem happy, Colonel,” Silverstein said.
“They're halfway home, Sergeant, you can report that orbital maneuver appears to be successful. Booster in correct attitude for firing of main rockets. If they fire — and don't send that last.”
“Gotcha, sir.”
This was the big burn and almost two hours passed before the program and responses appeared to be satisfactory. The faulty engine and its opposed engine should be shut down now. The original failure should have been bypassed. The fault that had prevented firing from Prometheus should have been corrected. It should fire correctly.
There are an awful lot of shoulds here, O'Brian thought, and was very glad indeed that this was not his decision. He poured coffee from the thermos and watched the countdown clock as it was set in motion. Here it goes, he thought, here it goes.
The count reached zero and the radio signal flashed out to the waiting receiver in the booster above. Unseen switches were thrown, the report of the monitors sent back instantly.
“We have ignition!”
There was controlled jubilation. A big success, for they had started the engines when the Prometheus team could not. So much for American engineering. These were Soviet boosters and they took well to Soviet control.
Then a needle snapped over, then another. The computer readout chattered and columns of figures appeared on the blank pages.
“There is trouble.”
“Firing has become erratic.”
“Shutdown!”
“Firing continues. Firing cannot be terminated.”
O'Brian spun about and shouted to Silverstein.
“Top priority. Ignition trouble on booster. Erratic firing. It appears to be out of control. More follows.”
“Is this bad, sir?” Silverstein asked, his fingers busy on the keys while he spoke.
“It's not very good, that's for certain. Just how bad it is we're going to find out very soon.”
22
GET 07:20- COTTENHAM NEW TOWN
What could she do, ohh, what could she do, Irene wondered despairingly. Yesterday evening Henry had settled himself at the kitchen table and written to the boarding house in Blackpool where they had stayed the last two summers. His ' holiday dates for the coming year had just been fixed and he was writing well in advance to reserve the same rooms again. He had given her the letter to post but it still sat on the mantelpiece resting against the china Blackpool Tower, fond memory of the city it was addressed to. But dare she post it? Just this morning, running short of money for the Sunday joint, she had taken the last penny out of the Post Office account. The last — she couldn't believe it. But it was all gone, every bit of it. Instead of the pounds and pounds that should have been there for the Christmas presents and next summer holiday there was nothing at all. Henry would find out, he had to find out sooner or later, and what would she do then?