“This is Mission Control, come in, Prometheus.”
The call was repeated over and over — but it was not answered. On the other couch Nadya stirred in her sleep.
“Why doesn't Patrick answer it?” Coretta asked.
“We should look, find out.”
Patrick had fallen asleep. The total exhaustion of the past days, the pain, the drug to kill the pain, all had taken their toll. Topped by the news that all their efforts were in vain, that there was no time left, it all had just been too much for him. There was simply no reason to stay awake now, he could die just as easily awake as asleep, so he had simply let go.
“Come in, Prometheus, come in please. The President is on the line.” The call sounded over and over from the wall speakers.
“Shouldn't we awaken him?” Gregor asked, looking down at the sleeping Commander. Coretta was next to him. Their hands were clasped together, both to keep from floating apart and for the pleasure of the human warmth. She shook her head.
“I'm not sure. Patrick needs the rest — and what could they possibly tell us of interest after the last good news that the trip was about over?” She said the words lightly, or at least tried to, but within she was overwhelmingly afraid.
“But it is your President who wishes to talk to you.” She smiled at his worried look.
“You respect the mere idea of authority too much, Gregor darling. Bandin is a political hack, always was, always will be. When he was still a congressman he was on the committee for school bussing — and his district was split, half white half black. That was when they first started calling him Rubber Bandin. He could stretch to reach anything, any side, and never lost a vote. Or accomplished anything. Anyone that adroit had to be elected President.”
“Coretta, please, you should not talk about your leader in that manner….”
“For a revolutionary you make a damn good bourgeois, my leetle Russian bear. Isn't your Polyarni the last of the old Stalin gang? Wasn't he involved with all those camps?”
“You should not talk like that,” he said, worried, looking over his shoulder. Coretta saw the gesture and burst out laughing, uncontrollably, over and over, tears rolling down her face. She was still laughing when she spoke.
“You should have seen your face! Looking about to see if you could be overheard — in a rocket in space about to blow up. I'm sorry, I'm not really laughing at you. But at us, all of us. With all our little nationalisms and fears. At least we few, here, can forget about them in the little time we have left.” She pulled herself close and kissed him warmly. “I'm glad I met you, really I am. It doesn't make all this worthwhile — but it sure makes it feel better.”
“And I, you…”
“The call, take the call. .” Patrick said, thickly, twisting against the restraining strap. His hands went to his bandaged eyes; he had forgotten what had happened, wondered why it was dark. Then unwelcome memory returned and he let the air out of his lungs and dropped his hand to the con switch.
“Prometheus here, come in Mission Control.”
“The President would like to talk to you all. Are you ready for this call?”
“Put him through,” Patrick said, uncaring. After a few moments Bandin spoke.
“This is the President of the United States speaking…”
“He can even make a phone call sound like the Gettysburg Address,” Coretta said, turning her back in a gesture of defiance.
“… it is with a heavy heart that I address what might be a final message to you brave astronauts, citizens of two countries, united in the bond of brotherhood in this great mission that seems to be terminating so disastrously. It is my sad duty to tell you the details of the atomic explosion that so recently occurred near your vehicle….”
“They found out!”
“Be quiet!”
“I have talked with Premier Polyarni at length and he wishes me to extend his heartfelt regrets that such a terrible accident could have occurred. For that is what it was. A single man, deranged, in the Soviet Defense Command, launched the missile…”
“One of ours, no,” Gregor said, shocked.
“He has been apprehended, but the deed was done. His breakdown was understandable since the world is filled with fear at this time. After the unbelievable catastrophe in Britain the rest of the world beneath the track of Prometheus has lived with the terrible knowledge that their turn might be next. We should understand this officer, though of course we cannot condone the dastardly action he has taken. I join Premier Polyarni in his pleas for understanding, his depth of sorrow at your plight, his unhappiness at what appears to be a disastrous end to this beginning of a new era, his hope that others will carry on the gallant battle you brave few have begun. Goodbye.”
In the silence that followed the end of the President's message Nadya could be heard calling out from the crew compartment.
“Where are you? I can't get free of this couch.”
“I'll help you,” Coretta said, pushing towards the hatch.
“Is that you, Coretta? That voice, it woke me up. I heard what he said. Please, take me to the others.”
They emerged together, Nadya with her hand protectively before her blind eyes.
“Did you hear it, Gregor?” she asked. “Do you believe it?”
“What are you asking, Nadya?”
“You know perfectly well. This story of the mad officer with his finger on the button. Is it true?”
Gregor took a deep breath — then shook his head despairingly. “No, it cannot be true. This sort of thing does not happen in our country. This now is, what do you call it? A cover-up. That missile was ordered to be launched. If there was panic it was closer to the top. Now they attempt to hide the truth. I am ashamed for my people, I apologize….”
“Forget it,” Patrick said. “It's not going to make any difference in the long run — or the short run — in any case.”
“He's right,” Coretta said. “It'll all come out the same way. And I'll bet we have a couple of generals who're jealous of your boys and wish they could throw some of their bombs around too….”
“That's enough, Coretta,” Patrick said sharply. “I'm a military officer. I won't hear that kind of talk.”
“I'm sorry, Patrick. Nerves I guess.” True or not, she knew she shouldn't have spoken that way. At least they could have peace in their last moments. “You're right. It just won't make any difference, will it?”
“I'm afraid not. What is the time?”
“The GET says 24:59.”
“We should be into the Sunspot time now. Does it look any different, Coretta — “
“I'm no astronomer….”
“Doesn't matter. Could I have a drink, that stuff you gave me makes me thirsty.”
Flax glanced at the GET. 24:59, and no rise in solar radiation yet. The piece of paper caught his eye and he noted the time. Wolfgang would be home by now. So that was the official excuse, the old madman and the button routine. Would anyone in the world believe it? Probably not. But it would save face, very important to big nations and small. Maybe they were still thinking of keeping Prometheus going. Why not. The energy need was still there, growing larger every day. Another launch, another attempt. What could Wolfgang possibly want? Flax put the call through. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. The hell with it. Flax crumpled the scrap of paper for the final time and threw it away.
36
GET 25:03
“Where is Prometheus now?” Bandin asked.
Dillwater flipped through the pages of computation and made a check mark against the GET of 25:03. Then he rose and went to the Mercator map of the world that hung on the wall of the conference room, the eyes of the tired men following him as he moved. With precise motions he checked the latitude and longitude and moved the magnetized red circle that showed Prometheus's position from moment to moment. It was now in mid-ocean.