His breath loud in her ears, coming faster now. She reached to disentangle his arms.
“I'm sorry,” he said softly, “.. sorry.”
“Don't be,” she said, equally as quiet, aware that his hands were on her back, moving lower, pressing his body tight to hers. The passion of his anger turning suddenly to another kind of passion.
Coretta knew it had gone far enough and knew how to stop it. Yet, even as she thought of that she wondered why she should stop it. She was a woman, and had been married. She found that this big, gloomy, passionate Russian attracted her. And — she fought hard not to laugh at the thought — turning the laughter into a smile instead — by God, this was a first in space; one for the books. Gregor saw the smile on her lips and touched it with his fingertips, whispering soft Russian terms of endearment as he did. A single, long zipper closed the jumpsuit she wore and he slid it open slowly, revealing the brown warmth of her bare skin inside.
She wore no bra — what need without gravity? — and her breasts were full and round. He bent his face, burying it in their warmth, kissing her over and over. She held his head tightly against her. Helped him to open the long zipper, all the way. She slipped out of her suit and helped him from his.
It was good, strangely good, floating weightless in space as though deep in the ocean. The waves of the music broke over them… and broke again…
29
GET 16:41
“Baloney, salami or rat cheese, Mr. Flax, that's the lot. And you can have them on white or white.”
Flax glared at the tray of unappetizing looking sandwiches.
“Why is it, Charley,” he asked, “that the second a mission starts the commissary runs out of everything edible and starts sending us up this kind of drek? I suppose the bread's stale too?”
“You got it right, Mr. Flax. But, after all it's after seven at night, you can't expect…”
“I can't what? I can't expect decent food because it is after union hours or something? I got men here been working twenty-four hours without a break and the best you can come up with is horse-cock sandwiches?”
“Not me, I just bring “em. You want one?”
“Can beggars be choosers.” Flax grumbled, anger dissipated as fast as it had come, and he shifted his weight in the chair to ease his numb legs. He ought to walk around. After he ate something. “Give me one of each. Thanks.”
He threw away one slice of bread from each sandwich, and mashed the remainder together into a triple decker. It was almost edible. He chewed slowly on a big mouthful and listened to the instructions from the fission engine team in his earphones.
“… that's the one, painted yellow, to the right of the mounting. You're going to have to cut out a section of the pipe and crimpseal the lower end. Right…”
All of the time he was talking, eating, he was aware of that voice and of the two men in the vacuum of space trying to repair the atomic engines. Working always against the clock. At the thought his eyes went up to the GET readout, 16:43. It flipped over to 44 as he watched. Time was running out. A light blinked and he threw a switch.
“Russian desk here, Flax. I've been on the KY and Baikonur and they swear they have nothing operational that could rendezvous with Prometheus before the deadline. They have a Soyuz coming on line in about two days but they have no way of cutting this time by more than a few hours. This matches the info in our records and, if you will pardon my saying so, the CIA intelligence. I got through to them without asking you, I know I should.
“No, not this time. You were right, thanks. Then we're sure there's no chance of getting a Soviet rocket to rendezvous in time?”
“Absolutely. Sorry. A real zero.”
“Thanks anyway.” He threw the switch.
No help coming from the Soviets. And the NASA shuttle could not be rushed on line for a week at least, at utmost speed. They were doing that in any case, readying it as fast as they could. If Prometheus could get out of this orbit they still might need help. It was coming as fast as it could.
If only the Air Force had their shuttle on the line now. By hindsight he could have arranged it, as a backup measure. Spilt milk again; no point in kicking himself. It was all hush-hush and secret projects, but there was no way that secrets could be kept from other people in the same business. The shuttle payload, yes that was hush-hush enough, though everyone was guessing what they needed a twenty-ton capacity for. The military never stopped playing their expensive games. Bannerman had said that a shuttle wasn't on line now, and he was the one who should know. But he hadn't said just how long it would take to ready one. That was a thought. If it was only a day or two away it could be of help if Prometheus did get into a slightly better orbit. Ask Bannerman? No, no point in bothering the White House again; they were still in the cabinet meeting.
Should he call the Cape itself? As he thought this he groaned and reached for the black coffee, washing the last of the tasteless sandwich down with the cold coffee. A gourmet feast. No, he couldn't think of calling directly to a classified project. Maybe two years from now they would let him know what they were doing. Then what could he do? In through the side door. Who was working on this project that he knew well enough to phone, who might cut through some of the red tape? Among the military, no one, the engineers — of course! Ask the right question, get the right answer. Wolfgang Ern-sting. They had worked together countless hours before Wolfgang had opted for bigger money and secret research. One of the original Peenemunde team that Von Braun had brought. He grabbed up the phone. “I want to make a person-to-person call to Florida.”
A sudden summer storm lashed rain against the windows of the tiny cubicle, rivulets of water cutting streaks through the New York soot. Cooper, Science Editor of the Gazette-Times, looked at the rain but did not see it, was not aware of it. His mind was centered on turning hard fact and soft speculation into purple prose. He gave a last chomp on his ink-stained nails to drive the ideas into place, then began to peck feverishly with two fingers on the ancient Underwood standard.
“A greater disaster is in the making,” he wrote, “one that will make the tragedy of Cottenham New Town insignificant by comparison. The screaming death that hurtled out of the clear sky on that helpless city was just a single booster of the complex array of boosters, six in all, that lifted Prometheus into orbit where it now rests unstably, hurtling over our heads once every eighty-eight minutes. The boosters are toys compared to Prometheus for with its payload this vehicle weighs in excess of two thousand tons. A figure so large as to be meaningless — until we compare it to something we know. A US Navy destroyer. An entire destroyer is up there over our heads. The weight of all those guns, armor, engines, bombs, shells, munitions, all of that weight ready to fall. And fall it will — and bring down with it something far worse than sheer mass. Radioactive poisoning! For as fuel for Prometheus's motor there is carried five hundred pounds of uranium. When Prometheus hits the ground and explodes with the forces of a small nuclear bomb it will have a nuclear fallout for that poisonous radioactive metal will be turned to poisonous radioactive gas in an instant. Enough to kill two million people if it were dispersed finely enough. And where will this atomic bomb from outer space hit? It will strike…”
Where would the damn thing come down? Cooper thought. ie turned to a Mercator map of the world that he had spread jn the desk. On top of it was a transparent overlay sheet with the sine-wave shaped orbit drawn upon it. With each orbit the track changed as the Earth below revolved out from under the satellite. So… there… on the twenty-eighth orbit, when they had announced it would impact the atmosphere, it would be going… Christ!… right over the middle of the US!