“Well warm it up.” The City Editor waded through the carpet to the TV on its carved mahogany case and turned it on. “A special broadcast from Great Britain, Cooper. I thought you ought to see it.”
“Yes, fine idea, thank you, sir.” He got more of the drink down and blinked through his tears at the familiar face of Vance Cortwright on the screen. Cortwright wore his most somber expression and when he spoke it was in deep, funereal tones.
“There is neither moon nor stars in the clouded skies of Britain tonight, as though the very heavens themselves have gone into mourning for the dead. This country has known many disasters in the past with plagues, the Great Fire in London, the trench deaths in the First World War and the bombings in the Second. These people know how to fight and how to survive — and how to die with dignity if they must. But never before have they experienced a disaster to match the one that happened here short hours ago. Reports are still coming in about isolated tragedies, but the central, unbelievable core of the holocaust that struck without warning from the sky is behind me here. The site where Cottenham New Town used to stand. I say used to because there is no other way to describe this.”
The scene changed as he continued to talk and little could be made of it at first, just moving lights and rolling clouds of some kind. It was only when the camera zoomed back from the close-up that a demolished structure of some kind could be distinguished. Spotlights were on it and firemen, wearing breathing apparatus, were working on it, tearing at it, in the midst of clouds of smoke and dust.
“This was a prosperous farm on the outskirts of the town, a solid structure going back hundreds of years. It was destroyed in an instant by the blast, turned into this jumble of broken timber you see. There can be little hope that anyone could have survived this destruction but a search must still be made. No need to search the town itself.”
As the camera moved, the site of Cottenham New Town came into view. Spotlights and Army searchlights illuminated the area. Nothing could be made of it, nothing comprehensible could be seen. There was no connection at all between this vista of blackened, smoking rubble and the city of buildings, homes and people that had existed there. There were still fires; the smoke clouds were lit from below as from an opening to hell. Even Cortwright's modulated voice broke at the sight.
“Perhaps all that might be said good about this. . this inconceivable disaster is that they had no warning, no premonition, no pain. It was over in an instant. Full details are not in on the rocket booster that struck here, but it was obviously moving at many times the speed of sound. The V2 rockets of the Second World War, of which this booster was a descendant, moved faster than sound and the residents of London only knew of their arrival when the explosion occurred. The same is true here. One second this was a living city, the next a burning hell. Fire brigades and hundreds of policemen have converged on this site from all directions. Troops are on their way. The roads are sealed off so that rescue workers can get through. Yet, tragically, there is very little to rescue. Except on the periphery, the outer edges of the shock wave that radiated out from the explosion. Here there are car accidents, one multiple pileup involving over seventy vehicles on the motorway. Buildings have collapsed, mostly isolated farmhouses and homes, and people in the street have been struck down. We'll have a report from the hospitals in a moment, but first this message…”
The Editor switched the set off before the commercial came on. He was smiling, satisfied, like a cat after a large dish of cream. He raised his glass.
“Here's to you, Cooper,” he said. “You made this story, saw what was coming before anyone else did, and we broke it first and we're now breaking circulation records. I have three reporters and five cameramen on the way there now in a chartered jet, and we're going to give this the kind of coverage that has never been seen before. And we're not forgetting you, Cooper. There will be twenty dollars more in your pay envelope and a bonus as well…”
“Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you so much.”
“Not at all. Only fair. But you want to earn this raise, don't you, Cooper? Yes, I see you do. No, don't bother about that, a little spill. The City Editor will wipe it up. I want you to think about bigger things. I want you to go out of here and write the follow-up story that will kick our circulation into a world-busting figure!”
“What follow-up, sir?” Cooper gaped.
“You're kidding of course. The goddamn rest of the rocket, that's what! What will happen when it comes down, how much worse the disaster will be then. Put in everything, I want it all.”
“B-but, there doesn't seem to be any indication yet that Prometheus will crash. Just a minor difficulty with the engines..”
“Don't believe a word of if. They didn't tell us their damn booster was going to blow up half of England so they're not going to tell us what's happening to the rest. I want figures and I want facts. I want the bulldog in the morning not just to have the entire story of the disaster that has happened but all about the one, the bigger one, that's in the making. How many people on that rocket?”
“Six, five I mean, one is dead.”
“The first victim.” He stabbed his finger at the City Editor. “Biographies on them all, personal stuff. The next in line to die — and who will die with them. You know what to do.”
“I certainly do, sir.”
“Then get on with it. I'll be here all night. Let me have a proof of the front page as soon as it's locked up. I'm writing an editorial, boxed on the front page, thirty column inches. Allow for it.” He finished his whiskey and slammed the glass down with a triumphal gesture. “TV and radio is the big thing, and they said the day of the newspaper was over. They'll find out — and we'll be showing them!”
27
GET 14:21
It was almost seven-thirty in the evening in Washington. The government offices were empty as well as the streets, and all the workers were home with the air conditioning turned up full. Electricity consumption was at its usual evening high as all the stoves came on, and the television sets. They were all on this night, every TV, almost all tuned to the continuous coverage of the disaster in England. Only one channel, in the middle of an important series game, did not join in the coverage for fear the baseball fans would burn down the station as they had once before when a technical failure had blacked out the last, scoring, inning of a drawn game. But only the real diehards were watching the game. There was more action in England.
In the White House the cabinet meeting still continued. Two and a half hours now and no sign of it ending. Bandin had talked briefly with the Soviet Premier but it had resolved nothing. Polyarni was holding his cards very close to his chest and saying little. He and his advisers were still formulating policy, or rearranging the facts for presentation in the proper order, or looking for ways to make sure their American partners shared in the present Prometheus failure. Until they decided just how to go about it they were being a little hard to talk to.
The American cabinet was considering the same thing, only from the opposite direction.
“We can't leave the Soviets with complete responsibility for this,” Simon Dillwater insisted.
“Why not?” Dr. Schlochter asked. “This is a political matter now, not a technical one, so the State Department has ultimate responsibility. They are our partners, yes, but this disaster is their responsibility and we must be sure that we are not hung with them for the crime. Statecraft, as the great Metternich said, is the art…”
“Balls to Metternich,” General Bannerman said, savagely biting the end of his cigar and spitting the piece onto the floor. “You drag out your Kraut and I'll drag out mine, and I'll give you a quote every time from Clausewitz that tops your guy. We are just going to forget the diplomacy and cold war bit this once and stay in the barrel with the Russkies. It's our joint project. If we kick them in the ass now they take their marbles and go home. Prometheus is not going to get up there without their Lenin-5 boosters. Do you agree, Mr. President?”