The fast elevator shot up inside the servicing tower and they emerged into the air-conditioned comfort of the Prometheus
Assembly Building. PAB was a building without a base, a five-storey structure perched high in the air on top of the servicing tower that enclosed the entire upper structure of the spacecraft. Not only were the immense boosters and core body too big to be put together in a normal Vehicle Assembly Building, but they would have been too massive to move once joined. Therefore they had been assembled and joined in the open with temporary shelters covering the sensitive stages. They had been designed with this in mind and would not suffer from exposure.
But Prometheus itself could not be treated in this cavalier manner. It had been built at the Kennedy Space Flight Center under the usual sterile and controlled conditions, air conditioned at all times to protect the circuitry from corrosion and the computer from temperature failure. After disassembly the various parts had been flown to the Soviet Union by a specially modified fleet of C5-As. Therefore the need for PAB, perched above the rockets, a building with the correct environment where the components could be reassembled.
Technicians moved aside when the three men crossed the floor to the entry hatch. Flax led the way, puffing as he pulled himself through the opening, and looked round the now familiar Flight Cabin.
As in any other Flight Cabin the controls and instruments dominated everything. Yuri Gagarin went into space as a passenger facing a panel with twelve different instruments. Things had changed a bit since his time. Systems of all kinds proliferated and with each new system came controls, with the controls meters and readouts, until every available inch of space on all sides of the two pilots' couches was thick with them. Just learning the position and function of the instrumentation required thousands of hours of study, then hundreds of hours in the Flight Cabin Simulator putting this knowledge into practice.
“Just look at that,” Vandelft said, angrily. “Look how the Russkies have fucked everything up!”
“Fook up!” Glushko shouted. In his months working with the Americans he had at least picked up that much English.
“Gentlemen, please,” Flax said, patting the air with both hands, trying to hush them. “I see the problem, the matter under discussion. Now if you both kindly shut up we'll see what we can do about it.”
He had to find an answer that would satisfy both parties — and it would not be an easy one. Under every switch, dial or readout a clearly lettered plate was fixed describing its function. Labels such as PDI ABORT or RCS did not make much sense to a layman but they were vital to the pilots. Next to each of these abbreviations was the same information spelled out in Cyrillic. But something new had been added.
On all sides, under and around the original labels, there were bits of paper that had been pasted on. Some of it was yellow paper, others ruled sheets from notebooks, and all of it covered in crabbed Russian handwriting.
“The whole thing looks like a notice board in a supermarket,” Vandelft said. “Are we selling spare tires and baby sitters or are we flying a goddamn spaceship?”
“These are necessary because of the inadequate information and labeling in English,” Glushko shouted, his voice drowning out the other engineer's. “My technicians must check the circuitry and for that the labeling must be in Russian. Besides — see — you do the same thing! So why should not we?”
He pointed triumphantly to some neatly lettered bits of card that Patrick Winter had attached to some of the most important readouts he would use in takeoff. Specific information about limits that should not be exceeded, figures to be watched.
. “I don't think this is quite the same thing,” Flax said, raising his hand as the Russian engineer started to protest. “However we can compromise. Your labels stay up as long as your technicians are working here. Then they come down — all of them. What benefits them on the ground has nothing to do with the need of the Soviet pilot in flight. Glushko! Hear me out before you stamp off in a huff. The paper labels come down, but your pilot may attach any special labels she might need, just as our pilot has done. They can discuss it and we'll all abide by their decisions. Okay?”
They would accept the compromise, they had to. He looked at his watch. Good Christ! He was late already.
They had started without him. The auditorium was half filled with newsmen and photographers, bright under the big lights for the television cameras. The platform seemed even more crowded than the audience as all officials of the partner nations who could, got into the act. Top NASA brass was matched by their opposite numbers in SCSE, the Soviet State Commission for Space Exploration. The astronauts and cosmonauts seemed lost in the crowd. There was an empty seat next to them they had saved for him. Flax hated making a late and obvious entry, particularly since everyone would find him more interesting than the Soviet official now nattering away. It couldn't be helped. He took a deep breath just as someone touched him on the arm. An MP captain stood there, flanked by two sergeants. All three wore sidearms.
“Top Secret communication, sir, from the code room. Could I please see your ID.”
“For God's sake, Captain, you've known me for over a year…” The protest faded away in the light of the officer's impassivity and Flax fumbled out the card. The captain studied it carefully, as though he had never seen it before, and nodded.
“Sergeant, note this number, then the time and date.”
Flax moved from one foot to the other as the sergeant took out a pad and slowly wrote down the particulars. Only when this was done did the officer unlock an attaché case chained to his wrist and take out a sealed buff envelope that was stamped TOP SECRET in angry red letters. Flax stuffed it into his pocket and turned away, but he wasn't through yet.
“Please sign the register, sir. Here… and here… and initial in this box… and here on the second sheet.”
Finally free, Flax walked swiftly down the aisle, uncomfortably conscious of the heads turning curiously to follow him. Only the minister droned on, unaware. Flax stood at the foot of the steps and waited until the red light blinked off on the camera doing a panoramic shot of the entire stage and the light came on the close-up camera covering the politician. As fast as reasonably possible he climbed the stairs and rolled across the stage to his seat. Ely Bron, in a well-tailored and obviously expensive charcoal gray suit, leaned forward and whispered in his ear.
“I hope she was worth the delay, Flax. Can I have her name when you get tired of her?”
“Shut up, Ely. You're a real pain in the butt,” he hissed back.
The Russian sat down, to a mild flutter of applause, and was replaced by a NASA official who said approximately the same things the other had, only in English. Flax mopped sweat from his head as subtly as he could, and waited for his breathing to calm down. Then he remembered the communication in his jacket pocket.