"I don't know. I'm not sure anybody does. We've scheduled a meeting so you can talk to the experts firsthand."
Henry glanced at Kerr. Kerr nodded. He looked worried.
The president pushed his plate away. Falling sky was hard to take seriously. But if Juarez had managed to scare Kerr… hell, she'd scared Henry.
Henry Kolladner was nearing the end of a long and distinguished career. He'd made sacrifices for his country. His lungs had been damaged thirty-three years ago by Iraqi chemical agents, and as a young congressman, he'd walked into a militia hostage situation, been shot twice, but brought the captives out. He'd also taken Culpepper's dream of returning to the Moon and carried it to fulfillment, and he'd bitten the bullet and restructured Social Security and Medicare programs to compensate for the fact that people now lived longer, and the nation could no longer afford a retirement age of eighty. (He'd read only yesterday that the average person who made it to fifty could now expect to become a centenarian. My God, how were they going to handle that! He wondered whether they shouldn't bring back tobacco.) He'd presided over a robust economy that had come very close to providing enough jobs for a workforce that was growing at a frightening pace.
He was constitutionally eligible to run again. And he was popular enough to win easily. But he'd contracted a rare form of lymphatic cancer, and the doctors weren't even sure he'd live out his present term. So he'd announced his intention to step aside. It was a pity; there was still a great deal to do. Whoever succeeded him would have to face some tough decisions. He'd been well on the way to establishing a reputation that would have placed him among the outstanding presidents. Now everything would depend on whether his successor finished what Henry had begun. Consequently, while maintaining formal neutrality among the candidates, he was hoping that anyone other than Charlie got the nomination. He liked Charlie, but the man lacked the political savvy and will to get things done.
Henry was the country's second African-American president. (Culpepper had been the first.) He'd been grateful to be second. Everyone had stood around waiting for Culpepper to make a mistake, to get something wrong, to lean too far left or right. The old son of a bitch had walked a tightrope for eight tough years. But he'd pulled it off.
Now it looked as if a major problem had fallen out of the sky. He doubted they really need worry about Moon fragments raining down on the world, but the American investment on Luna was something else. The major world powers were all shareholders in Moonbase International, and the loss of the facility was going to constitute a debacle of major proportions. The glitter would go off his name, and he'd be forever associated with it, as Lyndon Johnson was with Vietnam, and Herbert Hoover with the Depression.
"Is there any chance of a mistake?" he asked hopefully.
"They're still checking the numbers, Mr. President. But I don't think so."
He glared at her. "Wonderful. We spend a couple of trillion dollars to get Moonbase open for, what, a week? And then close it down again."
Juarez said nothing.
The president's mouth was dry. His first thought was that, however he proceeded, there was going to be a lot of finger-pointing. Moonbase, Director's Office. 8:27 A.M.
Evelyn Hampton was conferring with Jack Chandler, in his first official day on the job, over the remaining senior vacancies. Chandler had worked in executive capacities for years with various corporations with which Evelyn had direct or indirect connections. He'd twice come to her assistance, helping to get new operations up and running. It was his specialty and he was very good at it.
Moreover, he'd become a kind of father figure for her, an advisor in matters both professional and personal, the man she went to when she was in trouble.
He was in his fifties, a widower with three kids who were all off on their own. He was mildly overweight, with that washed-out look that people have who've recently lost fifty or so pounds. Chandler had suffered a severe heart attack the previous Christmas and had been put on a stringent diet.
Evelyn, anxious to help this closest of friends, had gone farther: She'd inquired whether the light lunar gravity wouldn't help Chandler by easing the strain on his damaged heart. There'd been talk all along of providing a sanctum sanctorum on the Moon for heart patients, and this seemed a good way to get the ball rolling. The disadvantage was that his physician didn't think he'd ever be able to return groundside again.
Chandler was more than willing. So Evelyn had gotten the director she wanted, and simultaneously performed an act of kindness for a man to whom she was indebted. Did he feel better? "Twenty years younger," he said. "I'd gotten to a point that it was like having a lump of lead in my chest." He beamed at her. "The weight's gone."
They were debating the merits of the applicants on the short list for his assistant's job when the phone rang. "It's Orly Carpenter, Mr. Chandler," the secretary's voice said. "He wants to speak with Dr. Hampton."
Carpenter was the NASA operations director at Houston. Chandler passed the phone.
"Good morning, Orly," said Evelyn. "How's everything?"
"Not good." Carpenter was an ex-astronaut whose voice tended to flatten when he was reporting trouble. "We've got a situation," he said.
She was seated on the edge of the desk, watching the Boston street scene that played across one wall of the director's office. People with umbrellas were moving through a sudden rain storm. "What is it?" she asked casually. Orly was okay, but she knew from long experience that government types in general tend to overreact to problems.
"You know about the comet," he said.
"Of course."
"We think it's going to hit. It's big, and it's coming fast. My God, Evelyn, we've only got three and a half days."
"Relax, Orly," she said, smothering her own sudden alarm. "I'm putting you on the speaker. Jack Chandler's here."
Chandler shared her view of government alarm. He said hello.
"The thing's going to hit what?" asked Evelyn. "The Earth? One of the stations? What?"
"The Moon." He caught his breath. "The Moon. It's going to give you one hell of a whack."
"You're not serious."
"Do I sound as if I'm not serious?"
"When?"
"Saturday night. Late in the evening, looks like."
"How sure are you?"
"About ninety-eight percent."
Evelyn tried to collect her thoughts. "You're talking as if it's something we need to worry about. Is it going to hit near Moonbase?"
"Looks like Mare Muscoviense."
"The observatory," whispered Jack. "Is it going to take out the observatory?"
"At the very least. This thing's going to trigger major quakes. Maybe worse."
"What could be worse?" asked Evelyn.
"There's a distinct possibility it could shatter the Moon."
Shatter the Moon. The phrase hung in the still air. Evelyn stared at sheets of rain battering the Prudential Building, trying to understand what he was really saying. "How do you mean," asked Evelyn, "shatter?"
"How else do you want me to say it? Think of a bag of loose rock."
Evelyn picked up a pad and began to scribble. They had three moonbuses, which among them could carry forty people out to L1. Round-trip took a little over five hours. Between now and ten thirty Saturday night they could make seventeen round-trips.
"Jack," she said, "how many people do we have at Moonbase now?"
He was already working on it. "Seven hundred thirty-four," he read off his screen. "Plus twelve on their way from L1."
Evelyn stared at him.
"I don't think we can get them all off," he said.
2.
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, Washington, D.C. 8:47 A.M.
The SSTO Arlington was about a half hour from launch. George Culver tried to concentrate on his checkoff sheet. He'd finally scored with Annie last night and his mind was filled with images of her. In back, he could hear the passengers beginning to come on board. He shook himself and tried again to read his instruments.