"Hell, we don't know anything," Windy said. "Tell him to call Carpenter."
"He says Carpenter isn't taking calls."
"Goddam right. I wouldn't either." His voice dropped an octave. "Tell him they've thrown in the towel, and you'll start a panic."
"You think there isn't going to be one anyhow?"
"That's okay. Let somebody else take the heat. We're out of it."
• • • Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 4:28 A.M.
"They're telling me it's not possible, Al."
"For God's sake, Charlie, what are we going to do?"
"I don't know." Rachel was watching Charlie as if she thought he might be on the verge of a stroke. "I don't know, Al. If you have any ideas, this'd be a good time."
"Listen, we're still doing a dance out there with the press. What do you want to tell them?"
So in the end it came down to that. As if it were somehow Charlie Haskell's fault that the world is about to end. What do you want to tell them?
A message light blinked on. "Carpenter," said Rachel's voice. "He says it's urgent."
"Hold a second, Al." He switched channels. "Haskell."
"Mr. President. We've got to evacuate. Do it now or forget it."
Charlie stared at the polished black handset. At that moment he'd have preferred to put a knife into his heart. SSTO Arlington Flight Deck. 4:29 A.M.
"Arlington, stand by for evacuation."
George listened to his own breathing, magnified inside the p-suit. Beside him, Mary released her harness.
No one said anything. They got slowly out of their seats. It almost looked as if they were laboring under heavy gravity.
FRANK CRANDALL'S ALL-NIGHTER. 4:30 A.M.
"As you know, we've been devoting the show tonight to coverage of the attempt to deflect the Possum. We have a bulletin here, and I want you to listen closely. Scientists at the AstroLab have been quoted as saying that the loss of a space plane a few minutes ago means that the Possum cannot now be stopped. They estimate that the impact site, however, has moved farther east. No one is yet willing to say on the record where it is likely to fall, but unofficially they are suggesting the southeastern United States or the Caribbean. Bill Plant is at the AstroLab now, and we'll be going over there in just a moment.
"I want to add that we're going to be cutting this edition of the show short. As you know, we're based in Miami, and we want to let our people get home to their families. So after our report from the AstroLab, we'll be returning you to the network. We'll look for you tomorrow night at our regular time. I hope.
"This is the Old Trooper signing off."
6.
Skyport Orbital Lab. 4:31 A.M.
Tory Clark was never sure precisely when she had the idea. It seemed as if it had been flickering just beyond the limits of perception since dinner, since she'd heard about the three ferries that would accompany the SSTOs out to the Possum. The Kordeshev. The Mabry. The Talley. All named for crewmembers on Frank Bellwether's lost Ranger. And Andrea Bellwether, Frank's daughter, sat just a few paces away.
Bellwether.
Maybe the problem was that Feinberg and the rest of them were thinking in a box.
There might still be a way. Antonia Mabry, Mission Control. 4:32 A.M.
"No, Tory," said Feinberg. "It wouldn't work. It's too massive."
"Are you sure?"
Of course he was sure.
"What else have you got?" she persisted.
Feinberg had never liked Tory Clark. She was a little too pushy for his tastes, and what was her background anyhow? She was just one more camp follower. "I don't really have time to argue about this."
"What do you have time for, Professor? Why not try it? What's to lose?"
"What's to lose? I'll tell you what's to lose. We've already driven it too far. It's probably going to go down in the ocean. That's not the best possible outcome. Moreover, to even try your idea, we'd have to sacrifice the people in the ships. Is that what you want? "
"If it works, they'll be okay."
"It won't work, Tory. What part of that can't you figure out?" His eyes were damp again. "We've already done enough damage. Let it be." He broke the connection.
Orly Carpenter stared at him. "What did she want?"
"Nothing." Feinberg bitterly regretted having offered his services for the project. It had failed, it wasn't his fault, and there was no way anyone could ever say he was responsible. But it didn't matter. His fingerprints were all over it. And somehow he knew he should have prevented this. Skyport Orbital Lab. 4:33 A.M.
"What did he say?" asked Windy.
"He said no."
"That's all?"
Andrea's eyes darkened with anger. "How could he do that? Does he have a better idea?"
"He says it would only make things worse."
"Well," said Windy, "we tried. Nobody can say we didn't try."
"Dammit," snapped Andrea, "he's giving up. But it's not his decision to make."
On one of the TV screens, they watched people gathering outside a church in Boston. They were holding candles, and someone was leading a prayer.
"You're right," Tory said. "It's not his decision."
Windy was shaking his head. "So whose decision is it?"
"Hell," Tory continued, "the president's out there."
"Wonderful," said Windy. "You going to call him?"
"Why not? We know where he is." She reached for the phone.
"No," said Windy. "You have any idea what kind of trouble we'll get into?"
Tory punched buttons. Colonel Quinn's voice answered: "Lowell."
"Lowell, this is the Orbital Lab. I'd like to get through to the president."
"Get in line," Quinn said.
"Colonel, it's urgent."
"Everything's urgent right now. I'll put you in the queue."
"I need-" And she was talking into a dead circuit.
Andrea's small fists clenched. "There isn't time for this. I might know somebody who can get through to him." She leaned over her mike and stabbed the keyboard. "Kordeshev, this is the Orbital Lab. I need to talk to Chaplain Pinnacle. Right away, please." Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 4:34 A.M.
Charlie was on the line with Al Kerr, who was on the brink of panic. And Charlie had nothing to tell him.
Rachel looked at him and tapped her earphone. Another call. He'd instructed her he didn't want to talk to anyone except Carpenter and Feinberg. "Hold on, Al," he said. Then he glanced over at her, irritated. "Who is it?"
"Dr. Hampton wants to talk with you, sir."
My God. "Tell her, later."
"She says it's urgent. Says you need to talk to her."
Charlie nodded. "Put her on." Antonia Mabry, Mission Control. 4:37 A.M. Nineteen minutes to impact.
"Yes," Feinberg admitted. "It is possible. But it's a long shot. God knows what-"
"Do it."
"Mr. President-
"Do it, God damn you."
"We're not prepared. We're going to have to guess the firing sequence. If we get it wrong, and we probably will, we may lose everybody on the planet. Do you really want to take on that kind of responsibility?"
Images flashed through Charlie's terrified psyche: sundrenched slaves hauling blocks through Egyptian deserts; men inventing religions to give meaning to disease-ridden, violent, pointless lives, and then becoming subjugated by the religions; women trying without much luck to civilize their hunter-husbands; everyone trying to control rulers. All the battles, the plagues, the rise and fall of the rivers, the inquisitions, the futility… Sacrifices had been made by millions of individuals, most of whom never understood where the race was headed. Now, finally, the common effort was bearing fruit. To let the rock fall was to see it snatched away, to put everyone back in caves, to refight all the battles against war and disease and superstition, to do everything again.
"I understand," Haskell said. "The responsibility is mine." SSTO Arlington Passenger Cabin. 4:38 A.M. Eighteen minutes to impact.