Dan Simmons - Phases of Gravity

Your book is fantastic — at least the bits and pieces you've let me read. I think your friend Dave would be very proud. The character studies make the pilots come alive in a way I've never seen equaled in print, and the historical perspectives allow a lay person (me, for instance) to understand our current era in a new light — as a culture choosing between a frightening future of exploration and discovery, or a retreat into the safe and familiar harbors of internecine wars, stagnation, and decline .

As a sociologist I have more than a few questions (not answered by your book . . . or the fragments I've seen) concerning you astronaut-critters. Such as — why do so many of you hail from the Midwest? And why are almost all of you only children or the oldest siblings? (Is this true of the new mission specialists — especially the women — or just the ex-test pilots among you?) And what are the long-term psychological effects of belonging to a profession (test pilot) where the on-the-job mortality rate is one in six? (Could this lead to a certain reticence in showing feelings?) Your references to Scott in the last letter sound more optimistic than anything I've heard previously. I'm so pleased he's feeling better. Please give my warm greetings to him. From the tone of your letter, Richard, it sounds like you're rediscovering how complex and thoughtful your son can be. I could have told you that! Scott was indulging his stubborn-ness when he wasted a year in that stupid ashram, but as I've suggested before, part of that stubbornness comes from his reluctance to let any experience pass unexamined or to remain less than totally understood.

Where could he have gotten that trait do you think?

Speaking of stubbornness, I will not comment upon the mathematical section of your letter. It's not worthy of a reply. (Other than to point out that when you're 180, I'll just be a spry 154. It may be a problem then.) (But I doubt it.) You asked me in your letter about my own philosophical/religious views on some things. Are we still talking about the places-of-power idea we confronted in India eighteen months ago?

You know about my love of magic, Richard, and about my own obsession with what I think of as the secrets and the silences of the soul. For me, our quest for places of power is both real and important. But you know that.

All right, my belief system. I composed a twelve-page epistle on this since your letter posed the question, but then I tossed it away because I guess my whole system of beliefs can be boiled down to this:

I believe in the richness and mystery of the universe; and I don't believe in the supernatural.

That's it. Oh, and I also believe that you and I have some decisions to make, Richard. I won't insult both of us with clichés or the travails of keeping Bruce at bay seven months after the deadline I promised him, but the fact is that you and I have to decide if we have a future together.

Until recently, I felt that we did. The few hours and days we have spent together over the past year and a half convinced me that the universe was richer — and, strangely, more mysterious — when we encountered it together.

But, one way or the other, life is beckoning to each of us right now. Whatever we decide, you need to know that our time together has widened and deepened everything for me, backward and forward in time.

I think I'll go for a walk now to watch the sculls on the Charles.

Maggie

Scott joined him at the table. 'You're up early today, Dad. What time are we going over for the launch?'

'About eight-thirty,' said Baedecker and folded away Maggie's letter.

The waitress came over and Scott ordered coffee, orange juice, scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and a side order of grits. When she left, he glanced at Baedecker's solitary cup of coffee and said, 'Is that all you're having for breakfast?'

'I'm not very hungry this morning,' said Baedecker.

'You didn't eat anything yesterday either, come to think of it,' said Scott. 'I remember you didn't have dinner on Wednesday either. And you didn't touch the pie last night. What's wrong, Dad? Are you feeling all right?'

'I feel fine,' said Baedecker. 'Honestly. Just not much appetite recently. I'll have a big lunch.' Scott frowned. 'Just be careful, Dad. When I used to go on long fasts in India I'd get to the point after a few days where I didn't want to eat anything.'

'I feel fine,' Baedecker said again. 'I feel better than I have for years.'

'You look better,' Scott said emphatically. 'You must have lost twenty pounds since we started running at the end of January. Tucker Wilson asked me last night what kind of vitamins you've been taking. Jesus, you look great, Dad.'

'Thanks,' said Baedecker. He took a sip of coffee. 'I was rereading Maggie Brown's letter and remembered that she said to say hello to you.' Scott nodded and looked out at the ocean. The sky was a flawless blue to the east, but there was already a haze in front of the rising sun. 'We haven't talked about Maggie,' said Scott.

'No, we haven't.'

'Let's talk,' said Scott. 'All right.'

At that second Scott's breakfast arrived and the waitress filled their coffee cups. Scott took a bite of toast. 'First of all,' he said, 'I think you've got the wrong idea about Maggie and me. We were friends for a few months before I went over to India, but we weren't all that close. I was surprised when she showed up to visit that summer. What I'm trying to say is, even though the idea occurred to me a few times, Maggie and I never got it on.'

'Look, Scott . . .' began Baedecker.

'No, now listen a minute,' said Scott, but as soon as he said it, he took time to eat some scrambled eggs with that total focus of attention that Baedecker remembered from as far back as his son's first feedings in his high chair. 'I've got to explain this,' Scott said at last. 'I know it'll sound weird, Dad, but from the first time I met Maggie on campus she reminded me of you.'

'Of me?' said Baedecker, at a loss. 'How?'

'Maybe reminded isn't the right word,' said Scott. 'But something about her made me think of you all the time. Maybe it was the way she used to listen so hard to people. Or the habit she had of picking up on little things people do or say and remembering them later. Maybe it was the way she never seemed satisfied with explanations that satisfied the rest of us. So anyway, when I had the chance in India, I tried to arrange it so you and she could have a few days to get to know each other.' Baedecker stared at his son. 'Are you saying that's why you had her meet my plane in New Delhi? That 's why you kept me waiting a week before I could see you in Poona?' Scott finished his egg, dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin, and shrugged ever so slightly.

'Well I'll be damned,' said Baedecker and scowled at his son.

Scott grinned and continued grinning until Baedecker found himself grinning back.

The launch was scrubbed with three minutes remaining before ignition. Baedecker and Scott sat in the VIP stands near the Vehicle Assembly Building and watched across the turning basin canal as high cirrus from the west quickly were replaced by cumulonimbus. The launch was scheduled for 9:54 A.M. By 9:30 the clouds were overhead and the wind gusts had risen to twenty-five knots, close to the maximum allowed. At 9:49 there were lightning strikes visible to the north and rain began to fall intermittently. Baedecker remembered sitting in these same stands when lightning had struck Apollo 12 as it lifted off, knocking out every instrument in the Command Module and causing Pete Conrad to say some candid things into a live mike. At 9:51 A.M. the voice of NASA's Public Affairs Officer came over the loudspeakers to announce that the mission had been postponed. Because of a very tight launch window — less than an hour — they would recycle the countdown for a launch the next day between two and three P.M. At 10:03 the speakers announced that the astronauts had been removed from the shuttle, but the voice was talking to an empty grandstand as the would-be spectators ran through the growing rain squall to reach automobiles or shelter.