Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“Did you see the interruption on the telly?” Mrs. Ryan asked. “Right in the middle of Coronation Street. Trouble with that big rocket.”

“Did it explode?” Irene was concerned, knowing that death and destruction were always waiting in the wings of life, ready to step forward.

“Not yet, though you never know, do you?”

Once more they nodded agreement then, steeling themselves as for battle, they entered the butcher's. Whatever happened, families would still have to be fed.

“I think it is time we got back into the bunks and strapped in,” Patrick said. “I know it's a drag, but in ten minutes the hold may end.”

“And how many times have you said that before?” Ely asked.

“Too many. Buckles and straps, Ely.”

The four acceleration couches were arranged two by two on the deck of the crew compartment. Each was designed and custom built to fit one of the astronauts, to give the maximum support and protection during the acceleration. Ely sat on the edge of his, a thin book clasped in his fingers. Patrick stood over him and waited in silence. Finally the physicist sighed dramatically and swung his legs up; Patrick helped him with the holddown straps.

Coretta's couch was next to his and faced a bank of instrumentation. She was already strapped in and studying the dials. These displayed duplicates of the biosensor information being fed continuously to Mission Control. Each of the astronauts was wired with pickups that passed on vital readings such as blood pressure, pulse, respiration, body temperature, all of the human biological measurements that had to be monitored, watched closely to ensure that the astronauts could stay alive in space.

With the four in the inner compartment secured, Patrick went through the hatch in the wall. Of course wall, ceiling and deck only had meaning when they were on Earth. Once in orbit and weightless the terms would become meaningless. The walls and ceiling of this compartment were covered with instruments and lockers for food and equipment, some of it impossible to reach now, all of it accessible soon when they could simply float in any direction.

Prometheus itself, the only part of this immense spacecraft that would go into orbit, was divided into four sections. In the nose was the payload, thirteen hundred tons of generator, reflector and transmitter, the reason for everything else. At the other end of Prometheus, over two hundred feet away, was the nuclear engine with its fuel supply of U-235, the engine that would lift them up into their final orbit. Above the engine was the biological shield, twenty-five tons of barrier to keep the radiation from the crew when the engine went into operation. Above the biological shield, also acting as a barrier to radiation, was the immense bulk of the liquid hydrogen for the engine, a tank over a hundred feet long.

Sandwiched between the payload before and the hydrogen tank behind was the crew module, the thinnest slice of the great length of the spacecraft. It was divided unevenly into two compartments. The larger, inner one took up over two-thirds of the space. This was the Crew Compartment where the four non-piloting members of the crew had their couches, where all the food and extra equipment was stored. An inner wall with a sealing hatch separated it from the Flight Deck. Here were the couches for the two pilots, all of the flight instrumentation, the windows, periscopes and TV connections that enabled them to look out and guide the ponderous vessel. But they were blind now, the TV cameras sealed into takeoff position while the shroud that protected them and the payload from the atmospheric friction of takeoff, hid any direct view. Nadya was in her co-pilot’s position and talking to Mission Control.

“He's here now, Flax,” she said. “He'll be able to talk to you as soon as he plugs in.”

“Any results?” Patrick asked her, dropping onto the couch and reaching for the headset.

“Negative. The President won't be able to talk to you.”

“What about Polyarni?”

“The same answer. Launch Control put me through, but he's involved in a conference with your President.”

“They don't want to go on record for keeping this flight going.” He threw the radio switch. “You there, Flax?”

“Roger. About your talk with the President. I had his First Assistant, but the President is in conference by phone with Premier Polyarni and cannot talk to you now, but he will as soon as he can.”

“Flax. Is this conversation being taped?”

“Of course.”

“Then I want to speak for the record.”

“It's been a long hold, Patrick, and you must be tired. Why don't you…”

“Negative. For the record.”

“I have been talking to the doctors here, Patrick. Your pulse and heartbeat show a good deal of stress. They suggest you attempt to rest, sleep if you can, your copilot will take over.”

“Knock it off, will you please. Flax. I'm the Commander and what I say is of some interest. If not now — for the record later.”

“Sure, Patrick. Just trying…”

“I know what you're trying. What I'm trying to do is get some facts on record. We are almost two hours into what is called an unsafe period in the flight plan you have in front of you….”

“Just an estimate.”

“Shut up. I'm saying something, not having a discussion. All the indications are that as this unsafe period progresses the condition of the ship deteriorates so that the mission should be aborted. Early estimates were that after a half an hour into the unsafe period the mission should be canceled. As Commander of this mission I ask why that has not been done?”

“Decision-making is still progressing at all levels. “

“I didn't ask that. I want to know why the recommended procedure has been ignored and why are we still on hold despite earlier decisions to abort at this point?”

“Observations indicate the earlier estimates possibly to be too pessimistic.”

“Give me those results, if you please.”

There was a mutter of voices at the other end then Flax was back on, relief obvious in his voice. “Launch Control wants to get through to you. The hold is terminated. Countdown continuing at zero minus twelve minutes. “

Patrick opened his mouth to protest — then closed it and flicked off the mike switch instead. He turned to Nadya. “We can still abort the mission. I can do it as a pilot's decision, but it would carry more weight if you agreed.”

“I know.” She spoke very quietly. “Is that what you want?”

“I don't know. What I do know is that we are heading for trouble if we take off now, possibly big trouble. But if we abort…”

“The entire Prometheus Project might be scratched. Is that what you are thinking?”

“Something like that. It cost a bundle and people are beginning to complain, and more and more pressure groups are jumping on the bandwagon. But that's not a problem you have in your country.”

“We have it, but not in the same way. The Politbureau is the Politbureau. One night there will be a meeting — next morning Polyarni will be Minister for State Pig Farming, and Prometheus will be dead at the same moment. So what do we do?”

''We're risking our lives if we go on now.”

“We risked our lives when we joined this project. I think — what do you say it in English? — the game is worthy of the candle.”

Patrick looked at her in silence for a long moment, nodding his head grimly. “I've always thought the game was worth the candle. But this is different. If we take off now we risk destroying everything.”

“If we stay we have the equal risk.”

“Come in Prometheus.” Kletenik's voice sounded in their ears. “At zero minus nine minutes how are the levels on your ADP?”