It did not. He looked at his watch. Yes, it had to be Flax. No one else would be calling him, not at this exact moment. Flax was an immensely punctual man. Then what was to be done? Wait, Flax would surely ring» back, yes, that's what would happen.
Wolfgang went into the kitchen, neat and spotless, just as he had left it that morning when tie had washed up after his breakfast. He had never married, had never found the time or the opportunity, and as a perennial bachelor he was far more fussy than any old maid. There was a stein tye favored on the shelf, an antique from some long-vanished Bavarian brewery, pressed glass with a metal lid to be lifted with the thumb, the top of the lid proudly proclaiming the brewery's coat of arms.
There was only one bottle of beer left and he poured it carefully into the stein. He would have to buy more. In the back of the fridge the stone crock of Schinkenhager was cooling — but it contained only a meager glass. He poured the last of the schnapps out and realized this was serious. None of the local liquor stores carried imported schnapps: he had never learned to like whiskey of any kind.
He knew he would want something else to drink when this ration was gone. He drained the Schinkenhager and washed it down with a draft of cool beer. What would he do?
What would he do if Flax did not call back? That was the thought foremost in his mind no matter how much he tried to avoid it. This was really not his responsibility and he did not need to go out of his way to cause himself trouble. If Flax didn't call back, why that was the end of it. He pushed his chair back with an angry gesture and paced the kitchen, trying to walk away from his thoughts; the room wasn't big enough. It took a good minute to undo the many bolts on the kitchen door, crime was very bad in this neighborhood, and let himself out into the garden and the steam-bath night. After all these years in the United States he could never get used to the climate. The crisp winters and gentle summers of Bavaria were still in his bones. He would have to make a visit there soon. It was not his responsibility to talk to Flax — the thought slipped in despite his strongest defenses.
Responsibility. There had been so much of that in Germany after the war, and collective guilt. He had tried not to think of it at the time and he would not think of it now. He had been a scientist, that was all, following instructions. What else could he have done? Right out of university and assigned to Peenemunde, one of the youngest on the team then. Was it his responsibility that the rockets he helped design had fallen on London, killing helpless civilians? It was not, he had never been accused, in fact the Americans were glad to whisk him away to work for them before the Russians could get a grip on him. He had been happy to come, and never regretted it. In this rich country the magazine articles about postwar conditions in Germany had seemed very unreal. As had the War Crimes trials. People had followed orders — yet they appeared to have committed crimes. This troubled his orderly mind and, in the end, he had stopped reading about it or even thinking about it. There was nothing he could do other than the work he had been trained for. He was a good worker and good at following orders.
Though the day was humid and hot it was cloudless, the sky a watery blue. Wolfgang stood and looked up at the sky, wondering if the satellite was above him now. Prometheus might well be hurtling along up there scant miles above his head. With its crew, its people there in space, living now and soon to die.
Uncontrollably he bent, heaved, threw up over and over again until there was nothing left inside him. When the spasm was done he looked around guiltily, dabbing his lips with his handkerchief. No, he had not been seen.
It was the people up there, not the fate of the tons of metal that had reached through to him. He could feel guilty about them because, he realized suddenly, he had been guilty for years. The collective guilt the German papers were always on about. He had been guilty once and had not acted. Could he do that again?
Wolfgang went into the house, washed and dried his face, then reached for the phone. And stopped. No, he could not call Flax directly, that is why he had asked him to call here instead. If he should call Houston there would be records, his name, the time. His involvement would come out. There could be reprisals, it would be a security violation. He backed away from the phone, turned to the door.
The car started easily, still warmed up, and a blast of cool air washed over him. He drove slowly, unthinkingly, until the neon sign BAR appeared ahead. He parked and went inside, his ears assailed by the too-loud jukebox. One regular sat at the bar, a young couple huddled in a dark booth, the bartender was reading a newspaper but looked up when the door opened.
“A beer please.”
“Draft?”
“Draft, yes, thank you.”
Wolfgang took out his wallet, his fingers touching the bills. There was a phone booth in the back corner. Duty and guilt, guilt and duty. He was sweating although the bar was cool. A one-dollar bill, break it for the beer.
With a volition of their own his fingers pulled out a ten and laid it on the scarred, damp wood.
“Might I have some change too, if you please. Quarters, a lot of quarters?” The bartender, gray and unhappy, looked — with faint disgust at the bill.
“You know this ain't no bank.”
“Of course, I'm sorry. I would also like a six pack of beer, no, two six packs.”
“Sure, you understand. For customers it's one thing, but anyone can walk in off the street.”
Wolfgang drained the glass of beer and seized up his change, the bills and the silver, and hurried to the phone booth before he could change his mind. The feeble light came on when he closed the door; the booth smelled of stale tobacco and rank sweat. The operator answered almost at once.
“I would like to make a person to person call to Houston, Texas. Houston, that's right…”
“This is Flax calling, do you read me, Patrick. Please come in.”
Flax was tired, so tired it didn't feel like fatigue any more but a wholly different state. A new kind of terminal disease maybe. Did people who were dying feel like this? Dying would be easy now, far easier than what he was doing, what had been done this day. A series of disasters, one after another. And now. He stared at the scribbled note before him, and it did not register. Logically, yes, but emotionally it had no impact.
“Prometheus here.”
“I've just received a report from the medics, from the bio monitors…”
“Yes, I forgot about them. I was going to call, but you know already, don't you.”
“This just says bio monitor cessation Dr. Bron. It could be communications failure.”
“It is. Ely is no longer communicating with the world. He's dead.”
“I'm sorry, Patrick, we all are….”
“Why bother. All of us up here are dead anyway. Ely was just in a little more of a rush.”
A runner shoved a note under Flax's nose. DILLWATER WANTS TO TALK PROM, it read.
“I'm sorry, Patrick. This thing isn't easy for any of us. Look, I've been informed that Dillwater wants to talk to you….”
“Tell him to take a running jump. There's nothing to talk about now.”
“Patrick, Major Winter, the director of NASA is coming through.”
There was a long pause. Flax had the feeling that Patrick was about to tell him what he could do with the director of NASA. If he had, he wouldn't have blamed him. Instead Patrick answered calmly; if his voice held any emotion at all it was simply that of resignation.
“Prometheus to Mission Control, ready to accept your message.”
Flax jabbed his finger at the Communications Console and the connection was made.