Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“There is a way,” Bannerman said.

“A way to save this whole thing?” Bandin asked.

“I did not say that, Mr. President. I said there was a way to prevent Prometheus from falling and causing another disaster on Earth.”

“What's that?”

“If it could be destroyed in space — “

“Are you saying what I'm thinking, Bannerman?”

“I am, sir. We have defense rockets in silos and on the alert at all times to prevent a sudden nuclear surprise attack. These rockets are designed to intercept other rockets aimed at the United States and to destroy them. This would be a good test of the ability of the system.”

Simon Dillwater had to fight to keep the revulsion from his voice when he spoke. “Are you talking about deliberately destroying five human beings, General? Three of whom are American citizens?”

“I am.” Bannerman was calm, unmoved. “We take far greater losses in combat during a war and no one complains. By tomorrow morning ten times that number will be dead in auto accidents on our highways. It's not the number of lives that should be considered, nor the citizenship of the persons involved. Our only thought must be preventing a larger disaster that could be caused by the rocket striking the Earth.”

“Have you thought what would happen to the Prometheus program if this were done?” Dillwater asked.

“That is not a consideration at this moment,” Bannerman answered in his coldest drillfield voice. “If you'd done a better design job of building Prometheus we wouldn't be 'in this trouble right now.”

“You cannot say that….”

“That's enough!” Bandin shouted. “You people can fight later. Now we have a problem on our hands. General, get me an up-to-date report on the defense rockets. You know, are they ready to go and so on — and when is the latest moment they would have to have the command to fire to knock this thing down before it hits the US.”

“Yes, Mr. President. I'll have that in a few minutes.”

“How would it be done, I mean> what kind of warhead..?”

“Atomic. You'll excuse me if I use the phone.”

There was silence in the room. Grodzinski fumbled with his pencil on the table before him, looking shrunk. Dillwater was silent and erect but he could not keep the horror he felt from his face. Only Schlochter seemed unmoved.

“We must plan for the worst,” he said. “The complete loss of this mission in every way. If this occurs — what will the effect be on the Prometheus Project as a whole, Mr. Dill-water?”

“The project. . yes, of course. It will set us back a year at least, to replace the space station. You must realize that, after initiating construction of the generator, the vehicle with its atomic engines was to be used in high orbit as the last stage in the shuttle to ferry up the additional building materials. Without it we can't get the construction operating.”

“A year. You don't mean a year?” Bandin said, his face gray.

“I am afraid that's the minimum, sir.”

“Then that's the election,” Bandin said. “There'll be some corn-fed yokel sitting in this chair and you will all be out of a job as well. If you don't want that you are going to have to think of something pretty quick.”

“Unless they repair the atomic engine,” Bannerman said. “That's the only chance we have now. They must stick with that until it's done.”

“You bet your butt on that,” Bandin said. “How are they doing, Dillwater? What's the status, the latest?”

“No change, Mr. President. The pilot and Dr. Bron are outside the vehicle making the repairs as instructed by Mission Control. Things are going as planned.”

“How much longer?”

“I hesitate to say.

“Force yourself.”

“At a guess, and I really am guessing now, I would say that they could be finished inside another hour.”

“Let's hope they are.”

“We all pray that they are, Mr. President.”

GET 17:08

“It looks like a chicken wrapped up for the oven,” Ely said, looking at the great mass of crumpled aluminum foil that was wrapped round the stern of Prometheus, around the nuclear engine. There seemed to be acres of it, a mound fifty feet wide with only the mouths of the engines projecting from it. He was clipped to the hull with Patrick floating nearby in the AMU.

“Well it's a chicken we are going to have to unwrap before we can get at the engine's guts. Which one is it?”

“On the far side, that one, there.”

Patrick worked the AMU's controls and drifted across the base of the ship while Ely worked his way around from clip to clip. By the time he reached the site Patrick had already peeled free a great sheet of foil and was digging deeper. They labored in silence, tearing at the aluminum foil, hurling it aside so that lengths of it were soon floating away in all directions. They were panting before they were done.

“Are you ready to proceed with instructions?” The voice sounded in their ears.

“No, we're not and we'll tell you when we are.”

Ely snarled the words, then gasped to get his breath back. Mission Control had enough sense not to answer. His back ached, every muscle in his body was sore, and he panted heavily, close to exhaustion. He couldn't wipe away the sweat because of the pressure suit and drops of it ran down his nose, itching and annoying. He shook his head to clear them away but it didn't work.

“Are you all right?” Patrick asked, touching the control on his AMU so that a jet of gas puffed out and floated him along the base of the engine; he grabbed a support to stop his motion.

“No I'm goddamned well not all right.” Ely choked out the words. “I don't know how much longer I can go on.”

“I'm bushed too — but we have to stick with it. Right now it takes two of us. Let's finish it then you take a rest while I go on to the hydrogen-helium heat exchanger.”

“If I could only get out of this suit for a few minutes….”

“Negative. We don't have the time to repressurize and start the whole thing over again.” Patrick tried to keep his voice cool, keep composed, but he was just as tired as Ely. Or more so, his nerves stretched taut. “No time, do you understand that? We've got to stick to this, there's nothing else we can do.”

“Are you ready to proceed, Prometheus?”

“No fucking lectures, Patrick, I can live without that. And shut up, Mission Control, we'll tell you when we're ready. I don't know if I can do it, my eyes won't focus….”

“I'm sorry about the lecture. This is getting to us all.”

Patrick floated close to the other man, until their faceplates almost touched, reaching out a hand to Ely's shoulder. Through the layers of fabric and plastic he could just feel the human being inside when he closed his fingers hard. They were alone there in space, in the vacuum of eternity that reached away on all sides, the sharp points of the stars just markers along the way. The steel shell of Prometheus was next to them, a capsule of life in the terrible emptiness, while filling half the sky was Earth.

“We've no choice, Ely,” Patrick said. “It took billions of dollars to get us up here and millions of hours of labor. And it's all a waste if we don't finish this job. There's really nothing else we can do.”

“Right,” Ely said. “Sorry about that. Let's get on with it. What's next, Mission Control?”

They had been waiting in Houston, listening in silence, powerless to help. All they could do was describe what had to be done and hope that the two exhausted men in space would do it correctly.

“The plate before you, it should have a stencilled number Peter Alfred seven six on it. There are four duz fasteners.”

“Roger. Can I have the screwdriver, Pat.”