“Mike,” he called to the man at the nearest console, and waved him over.
“What's up, Flax? Not more trouble?”
“You'll hear about it. Look, take these keys, they unlock the big desk in my office. Bottom drawer. There's a bottle of slivovitz there. Get it and bring it to me.”
“Shliv-o-what?”
“Plum brandy. It's the only bottle there. Get cracking.”
“Flax, you know the rules about drinking, you wouldn't want to…”
“I would. Screw the rules. My people are dying up there.”
He was surprised, shocked, to find tears in his eyes. They ran slowly down his cheeks and he really did not mind. He was mourning the dead. This last thing about the solar flares was almost too much to handle. How could he tell them? Nothing had gone right with this mission from the beginning and it wasn't over yet.
He sighed tremulously, not even realizing he had made the sound, a tired fat man at the end of his tether. He mopped away sweat and tears with his sopping handkerchief. And stared at nothing until the slivovitz arrived. It was transparent and moved like oil in the bottle and appeared harmless. So was nitroglycerine and it looked the same way. He uncorked the bottle and inhaled deeply of the rich odor of decay. It smelled even worse than tequila, which he also adored. There was a half-empty container of coffee at his elbow and, scarcely aware he was doing it, he poured the cold remains onto the floor, then filled it halfway with the slivovitz.
Marvelous! It cut a track down his throat and exploded like a bomb in his stomach, sending waves of warmth out to his extremities. Marvelous, and while the effect still lasted he threw the microphone switch.
“Come in, Prometheus, Mission Control here.” He had to repeat the call twice before there was a response.
“Hello, Flax.”
It was Patrick, his voice thick and slurred. “Yes, Flax here, is that you, Patrick?”
“Yes. Coretta's given me a shot, for the pain. Can't talk too well. Pain is A-OK. I told her to give Nadya a bigger one and she did and Nadya is sleeping. No change with Ely. Our eyes are bandaged. The doctor does not know if the blindness is temporary or permanent.” There was no alteration in his voice as he said this. “Did you find out yet who threw that thing at us?”
“Negative. You'll have the news as soon as I hear.”
“I hope so. Gregor is suited up and ready to go out. I'll relay from the engine team. Coretta will handle his umbilicals from inside the hatch.”
“That is contraindicated.”
“What the hell do you mean, Flax? If that engine isn't fixed there goes everything.”
“Look, Patrick, it looks like there isn't enough time to get the engine firing before atmospheric contact.”
“According to my clock we have about eighteen hours yet before we are due to hit.”
“The clock's been changed…”
“What!”
“Listen to me. I've been talking to a Professor Weisman who is a solar physicist, a high atmosphere specialist. Solar storms are due soon that will raise the top of the atmosphere, change everything.”
“When are they due?”
“Almost any time now.”
“This is straight, Flax? No chance of error?”
“No chance of error on the sun's rotation. The storms were just small ones when he observed them about two weeks ago. If they follow the normal solar activity pattern they should be full-blown by now.”
“Give me the odds, Flax. The sun is no goddamn oven that goes on and off with a timer. What are the odds of a major eruption?”
Flax hesitated, but in the end he had to speak. “Eighty to ninety percent that there will be a major solar flare.”
“Well, that's nice. “ There was more than a little bitterness in Patrick's voice now. “I'm going to tell the others. Out.”
Flax switched off the radio connection and hooked through to the communication desk. “Get Professor Weisman back. Ask him who the people in Europe are who are doing continuous solar studies. I want names and phone numbers. Then contact them. I want a continuous report here on these solar flares, levels of radiation. Hook them through to astronomy who can record the data. Do it now.”
“I have an incoming call for you.”
“No calls.”
“This is one you asked for. A Mr. Wolfgang Ernsting.”
“Yes, right, put him on.”
Flax sipped at the slivovitz but it didn't seem to help any more; he threw the container into his wastebasket. “Hello, Wolfgang, is that you? Flax here.”
“I've heard about your trouble. Terrible…”
“That's the least of it.” He pressed his forefingers hard into his forehead. “I'm sorry to bother you. It's too late now for what I wanted to know.”
“I'll be glad to help, in any way.”
“I know, thanks. But I don't think we will be able to kick Prometheus into a higher orbit now. So it doesn't matter. I was going to ask you how long it will be before your Air Force shuttle can be readied for launching. I know you have a week countdown and I was wondering how far into it you were.
Originally I hoped we could maybe get a few more days in a better orbit and there might have been a chance of a rescue launch. Get those people off there.”
“Yes, well as you say, there is no chance now. If it is any consolation remember the old German expression. 'Rufen Sie mich zu Hause in dreissig Minuten an.' Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Wolfgang.”
Flax slowly broke the connection and wondered just what was going on. That was really some old German folk saying. Phone me at home in thirty minutes. He looked at the clock and scratched a note on his pad. Why couldn't Wolfgang talk now? Someone listening, security? It could be anything. The only way he could find out would be by making the call, but why should he bother? But maybe it was important. Some hush-hush business with the Air Force shuttle. Not that it made any difference now. Still, he hated to leave ends untied. The thoughts whirled around and around in Flax's head, whirling like snowflakes around the hard black central core of realization that Prometheus was doomed. He crumpled the note and aimed it towards the wastebasket.
Then smoothed it out and clipped it up before him where he could see it. At least he owed Wolfgang the courtesy of returning the call. The Communications Console light blinked and he made the connection.
“Mr. Dill water for you, Flax.”
“Right. Flax here.”
“Ahh, yes, Mr. Flax, President Bandin has a personal message for the astronauts…”
“They've shut down.”
“It is a matter of some urgency.”
“It always is. Hold on and I'll see if I can raise them.”
The makeshift oxygen tent was made of plastic bags that Gregor had patiently glued together at the edges. It billowed out like a crumpled balloon, holding its shape from its own internal oxygen pressure, slightly more than the ambient air pressure of the compartment. Ely's face was sallow, his respiration so slight it was scarcely noticeable. Coretta had to look at the bio readouts next to his head to reassure herself that he was still alive. Heartbeat steady but weak, the same for his breathing. He was alive — but barely. She adjusted and pressurized glucose drip in his arm vein and realized that there was little else she could do. What use was it all in the short time remaining? Whenever she remembered they had but short hours, perhaps just minutes, to live the same jolt of fear passed through her. She did not want to die and it was becoming harder and harder to keep up a front.
“How is he?” Gregor asked, coming close.
“The same, no change.”
“Perhaps he's the lucky one. He will never know when it happens.”
“Oh, God, it's just too terrible to believe.” She clutched him, buried her face in his chest — but could not cry. You can weep at others' deaths, not at your own to come.