Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“Less,” Bandin said. “We'd be insane to vote for ourselves. So the bomb is out, forget it, Bannerman. As much as we would like to do it or need to do it we are not going to do it.”

“What about TNT or nitro?” Grodzinski asked. “I handled them in the coal mines when I was a kid. They ought to break that thing up into little pieces.”

“They would,” Dillwater told him. “But there is the little matter of their delivery to the satellite. Admittedly they already have a full tank of hydrogen and possibly enough oxygen to cause a chemical explosion if the two could be combined. But it would be difficult, and also out of the question. Any chemical explosion at that altitude would liberate most of the U-235 to fall back to earth. If spread out this could be a bigger disaster than it might be localized in one area. A chemical explosion is out.”

“Then what the hell do we do?” President Bandin asked, looking around the table. “Just sit here and beat our meat until it comes down and hope it doesn't hit anything important? Is that the best we can come up with?”

Apparently it was because only silence followed his question. Simon Dillwater watched and waited, seeing if anyone could come up with a suggestion. No one did. Eventually he knew that what he had to do, had to be done. He rose to his feet and held out a thin, orange-bound folder. The dark letters SECRET were stamped on its cover. All eyes were on him now.

“Since there seems to be no other solution to this trying problem I feel I should inform you gentlemen of the existence of this contingency program. I do not advise that it be adopted, nor do I say that it should not be. I just bring it to your attention. This is a program titled HOOPSNAKE. As you know, many different programs are worked out before all missions that cover many possible contingencies, accidents in space, mishaps that might occur. Most are realistic, some very farfetched. HOOPSNAKE is in the latter category, worked out by some engineers whom I feel were a bit on the morbid side. I learned of its existence by accident, read it — and classified it and had it filed — “

“Come on, Dillwater, what the hell is it?” Bandin's patience had worn thin.

“I beg your indulgence, Mr. President, but I wanted to make all of the details clear. What HOOPSNAKE is, is an outline of a technique by which a self-induced nuclear explosion could vaporize Prometheus. It would destroy the ship and, of course, the radioactive fuel.”

“I don't get it,” Grpdzinski said.

“It sounds quite simple,” General Bannerman answered. “You mean they can jury-rig the atomic motor to blow the whole thing up?”

“Not quite like that, but that is basically the idea. I have been assured if the procedures are done correctly that a nuclear explosion will follow. I must bring to your attention the fact that these procedures must be done by someone aboard the craft. In other words the people who must arrange the explosion must be blown up by it. No means of remote control, even if that were possible, could be set up easily and simply for the desired effect.”

“You're asking them to commit suicide to save the world?” Bandin said.

“I am asking them nothing, sir. I am just outlining a program which I have here. The implementation of it, thank God, is not my decision.”

“They're dead anyway,” Bannerman said calmly. “I say we send them the details now so they can get to work. It's the only chance we have.”

“Perhaps they might be asked first if they want to,” Oillwater said.

“We've no time for that kind of luxury,” Bannerman answered. “Major Winter is an officer, as is Major Kalinina. They can take orders. They should be told at once what must be done. I am sure that they'll be proud to seize this opportunity to avert a catastrophe here on Earth. We have no time for argument if this plan is to be implemented, Mr. President, I ask for your decision now.”

“I should talk to Polyarni, have them talk to Kalinina---”

“He didn't talk to us when he threw that bird at the ship — and we backed him on his half-ass story. He'll back us on this one. We are waiting, Mr. President.”

“Anyone else have anything to say?” Bandin asked, an edge of desperation in his voice; he had risen to his high station by avoiding decisions — not making them. “All right. We can't order them, not yet, but we can explain to them about HOOPSNAKE. Give them the details. If they jump the right way, make the right decisions, we won't have to order them. That's a last resort, Bannerman. Find out how they feel before we make them do it. Honey and vinegar, you know. They're good people, I have faith in them. They will die anyway and this way they can make their deaths meaningful by saving the lives of possibly thousands of their countrymen. That's a great thing to do. Contact them about HOOPSNAKE now.”

“Hoopsnake,” Grodzinski said brightly. “I just got that. The snake that swallows its tail and eats itself up and vanishes.”

“Shut up,” Bannerman said tiredly.

GET 25:28

Wolfgang Ernsting put on the car's brake and threw open the door. Damp Florida air rolled over him and he gasped; he had never become acclimatized to the abrupt change from the chill air conditioning to the tropical breathlessness. At his front door he fumbled for the key — and stopped. Was the phone ringing? Yes, he could hear it dimly, the drive had taken longer than he thought. He rushed, unlocking the door and throwing it wide, running to the phone.

The ringing stopped abruptly just as his fingers touched it. When he picked up the receiver all he could hear was the dialing tone. He replaced it quickly, watched it, hoping it would ring again.

It did not. He looked at his watch. Yes, it had to be Flax. No one else would be calling him, not at this exact moment. Flax was an immensely punctual man. Then what was to be done? Wait, Flax would surely ring» back, yes, that's what would happen.

Wolfgang went into the kitchen, neat and spotless, just as he had left it that morning when tie had washed up after his breakfast. He had never married, had never found the time or the opportunity, and as a perennial bachelor he was far more fussy than any old maid. There was a stein tye favored on the shelf, an antique from some long-vanished Bavarian brewery, pressed glass with a metal lid to be lifted with the thumb, the top of the lid proudly proclaiming the brewery's coat of arms.

There was only one bottle of beer left and he poured it carefully into the stein. He would have to buy more. In the back of the fridge the stone crock of Schinkenhager was cooling — but it contained only a meager glass. He poured the last of the schnapps out and realized this was serious. None of the local liquor stores carried imported schnapps: he had never learned to like whiskey of any kind.

He knew he would want something else to drink when this ration was gone. He drained the Schinkenhager and washed it down with a draft of cool beer. What would he do?

What would he do if Flax did not call back? That was the thought foremost in his mind no matter how much he tried to avoid it. This was really not his responsibility and he did not need to go out of his way to cause himself trouble. If Flax didn't call back, why that was the end of it. He pushed his chair back with an angry gesture and paced the kitchen, trying to walk away from his thoughts; the room wasn't big enough. It took a good minute to undo the many bolts on the kitchen door, crime was very bad in this neighborhood, and let himself out into the garden and the steam-bath night. After all these years in the United States he could never get used to the climate. The crisp winters and gentle summers of Bavaria were still in his bones. He would have to make a visit there soon. It was not his responsibility to talk to Flax — the thought slipped in despite his strongest defenses.