David Palmer - Emergence

However, if there is one thing Adam has not exaggerated, it is his driving skill. For the first few minutes I was terrified; I expected every second to end in a crash. But I knew there was no point in trying to get him to slow down as long as he wore that expression. I gritted my teeth and held on — and for once I didn’t have to remind Lisa to fasten her seat belt. I held Terry securely in my arms; Tora-chan clung to a seat cushion in the rear, looking annoyed.

But soon I noticed that Adam’s driving actually was as smooth as ever; only the speed was different. He was completely relaxed behind the wheel as he hurtled us along the twisting fire road through the sequoia forest.

He cornered very quickly — but under perfect control; every turn was executed in the same precise manner; it was like watching a machine drive: He approached each corner from the outside, braking late and heavily with his toe on the brake, using his heel to punch the accelerator as he double-clutched, downshifting to the appropriate gear. He twitched the steering wheel just before releasing the brakes, which put us perceptibly sideways going in. He fed in power, increasing it steadily as we cut across the width of the road, clipping the inside verge just past the geometric apex, accelerating out on an expanding radius. The slide angle tapered off to zero as we accelerated down the ensuing straightaway. There was none of the wild, time-wasting, back-and-forth broadsliding that one sees when Hollywood attempted to depict fast driving; I don’t think I saw him cross-control the steering three times during the whole hours-long dash.

And we certainly did go quickly ! We pulled out of the search area in the deep sequoia forest around seven; Adam got us to the hard-surfaced park roads by about ten. We went even faster on pavement.

Terry continued to mutter intermittently as we traveled:

“…cooling longjohns’ connected to the backpack, shoulder ring’s connected to the helmet ring, glove ring’s connected to the arm ring, neckbone’s connected to the…”

“ Oh — God bless ! What a sight ! That’s beautiful… ”

“Where is it…? I did everything right — I’m sure I did…”

“ There…! Oo-ooh, damn, it’s big. Okay, board and storm — no, let’s not be greedy; boarding will be quite sufficient.”

Adam glanced across at the bird occasionally and shook his head. Once he said, “This is crazy. If we accept this premise, then Candy must have gone up on a shuttle; she must be in space right now. What’s an eleven-year-old kid doing in space?”

“Would you rather go back and keep searching?”

He kept driving.

Terry continued to “keep us posted.” Briefly he repeated some gibberish we’d heard previously. But by quarter to eleven, he got excited: “No-no-no; stop here! Oh — must the damned thing always go where I steer it instead of where I want it…!

“Okay, wake up, all you little transistors; Momma wants to talk to Ivan. Ivan, Ivan — talk to me, you ideologically deficient collection of cowed chips!

“There, that’s better. Okay, now let’s have Ballistika.”

“Adam,” I ventured, “that sounds like Russian.”

Adam concentrated on his driving. His jaw muscles worked but he didn’t reply.

“Dear Lord…!” Terry burst out abruptly. “Did you make me this stupid originally or have I picked it up on my own! I can’t put this thing down at Vandenberg — I don’t want to wind up inside a mountain…!”

Suddenly Terry had our undivided attention. Adam braked to a quick stop.

“ Now what…? What other coordinates do I remember? Think, dummy — or do you like it up here! Think harder! We’re running out of time! Think! Thinkthink think ! Picture the IFR Supplement in your head — certainly there ought to be room for it; we know there’s nothing else in there. What did you see — whatwhat what ? Of course…! Perfect!

“Now the coordinates. Think — the clock is running… !

“Ah- ha! 34 degrees 54 minutes north longitude, 117 degrees 52 minutes west latitude…! Damn, what a memory! And… execute!”

I hadn’t had to be told; I copied the numbers as Terry uttered them. Adam was already unfolding the chart. We didn’t have the dividers and parallel rule, but it wasn’t difficult to make an approximation…

“Edwards Air Force Base,” breathed Adam. “Of course, perfect.”

“She said that,” said Lisa from the back seat. We spun and stared. “She’s awful scared,” she continued solemnly. “I think we better hurry.”

We arrived back at the little airstrip outside Fresno a few minutes after noon. Lisa’s soft-spoken observation was all it took to revert Adam to a full-blown wild man. He fueled and preflighted the Cessna; and by 12:30 we were accelerating down the runway. Adam banked almost the instant the wheels cleared the ground, and seconds later we were on course for Edwards.

He climbed us to about seventy-five hundred feet; the operator’s manual suggests that altitude as the ideal compromise between lessened air resistance and engine-power loss due to reduced oxygen. He fiddled with the mixture, manifold pressure, and propeller pitch until he was squeezing out the absolute maximum speed of which the plane was capable.

We’ve been in the air for about an hour; just under a half hour to go.

I’m not a compulsive histographer like Candy. I’ve been keeping her journal up-to-date in her absence because I know she would rather not have any significant gaps. But today’s record is being made in hopes that keeping busy will enable me to retain what little remains of my sanity.

This is crazy , what we’re doing — it simply is not rational!

But we’re doing it anyway; and I think Adam really expects to find her at Edwards when we get there, or shortly thereafter.

I think I do, too.

But…

Sorry for the interruption. We’re in the midst of a crisis; it’s panic time among our little group. And justifiably so, I’m afraid.

All doubts have vanished; we know that we’re listening in on Candy’s thoughts through Terry — however he’s doing it. And it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what’s happening.

A few minutes ago Terry gasped (I know — whoever heard of a bird gasping?), “What the hell… ! That’s atmosphere ! What happened to the brakes! Oh, damn, this is going to be hot !”

“Mommy,” said Lisa unhappily, “Candy’s awful scared.”

I wasn’t much of a mother just then. I said, “Yes, dear, I know. Be quiet now and let us hear what’s going on.”

“Knock it off,” snapped Terry. “Let’s get that record wrapped up and safe first. Then be as hysterical as you like. Okay. In through the neck, snap on the helmet; now Kyril’s waist ring, now the spare. There. Both PLSS thermostats cooling at max. Good, maybe it’ll come through okay.

“Now me — oh, Lord, I’m scared…! Pay attention ! — right glove — stop fumbling ; you’ve done this a dozen times in training! Oh, yeah? — with another pair of gloves on already? Okay. Left glove. Good. Now turn PLSSs down all the way.

“Whoa — gees building up already. Better get up somewhere near the middle of the transverse bulkhead, away from the hull. That hull’s going to get hot!

“Idiot! — don’t forget the record …! Maybe I can wedge the EMU in between those bulkhead stiffeners. There. EMU — stay !

“Hey, where’s my PLSS? Oh, that’s no good; I better…