Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

Responsibility. There had been so much of that in Germany after the war, and collective guilt. He had tried not to think of it at the time and he would not think of it now. He had been a scientist, that was all, following instructions. What else could he have done? Right out of university and assigned to Peenemunde, one of the youngest on the team then. Was it his responsibility that the rockets he helped design had fallen on London, killing helpless civilians? It was not, he had never been accused, in fact the Americans were glad to whisk him away to work for them before the Russians could get a grip on him. He had been happy to come, and never regretted it. In this rich country the magazine articles about postwar conditions in Germany had seemed very unreal. As had the War Crimes trials. People had followed orders — yet they appeared to have committed crimes. This troubled his orderly mind and, in the end, he had stopped reading about it or even thinking about it. There was nothing he could do other than the work he had been trained for. He was a good worker and good at following orders.

Though the day was humid and hot it was cloudless, the sky a watery blue. Wolfgang stood and looked up at the sky, wondering if the satellite was above him now. Prometheus might well be hurtling along up there scant miles above his head. With its crew, its people there in space, living now and soon to die.

Uncontrollably he bent, heaved, threw up over and over again until there was nothing left inside him. When the spasm was done he looked around guiltily, dabbing his lips with his handkerchief. No, he had not been seen.

It was the people up there, not the fate of the tons of metal that had reached through to him. He could feel guilty about them because, he realized suddenly, he had been guilty for years. The collective guilt the German papers were always on about. He had been guilty once and had not acted. Could he do that again?

Wolfgang went into the house, washed and dried his face, then reached for the phone. And stopped. No, he could not call Flax directly, that is why he had asked him to call here instead. If he should call Houston there would be records, his name, the time. His involvement would come out. There could be reprisals, it would be a security violation. He backed away from the phone, turned to the door.

The car started easily, still warmed up, and a blast of cool air washed over him. He drove slowly, unthinkingly, until the neon sign BAR appeared ahead. He parked and went inside, his ears assailed by the too-loud jukebox. One regular sat at the bar, a young couple huddled in a dark booth, the bartender was reading a newspaper but looked up when the door opened.

“A beer please.”

“Draft?”

“Draft, yes, thank you.”

Wolfgang took out his wallet, his fingers touching the bills. There was a phone booth in the back corner. Duty and guilt, guilt and duty. He was sweating although the bar was cool. A one-dollar bill, break it for the beer.

With a volition of their own his fingers pulled out a ten and laid it on the scarred, damp wood.

“Might I have some change too, if you please. Quarters, a lot of quarters?” The bartender, gray and unhappy, looked — with faint disgust at the bill.

“You know this ain't no bank.”

“Of course, I'm sorry. I would also like a six pack of beer, no, two six packs.”

“Sure, you understand. For customers it's one thing, but anyone can walk in off the street.”

Wolfgang drained the glass of beer and seized up his change, the bills and the silver, and hurried to the phone booth before he could change his mind. The feeble light came on when he closed the door; the booth smelled of stale tobacco and rank sweat. The operator answered almost at once.

“I would like to make a person to person call to Houston, Texas. Houston, that's right…”

“This is Flax calling, do you read me, Patrick. Please come in.”

Flax was tired, so tired it didn't feel like fatigue any more but a wholly different state. A new kind of terminal disease maybe. Did people who were dying feel like this? Dying would be easy now, far easier than what he was doing, what had been done this day. A series of disasters, one after another. And now. He stared at the scribbled note before him, and it did not register. Logically, yes, but emotionally it had no impact.

“Prometheus here.”

“I've just received a report from the medics, from the bio monitors…”

“Yes, I forgot about them. I was going to call, but you know already, don't you.”

“This just says bio monitor cessation Dr. Bron. It could be communications failure.”

“It is. Ely is no longer communicating with the world. He's dead.”

“I'm sorry, Patrick, we all are….”

“Why bother. All of us up here are dead anyway. Ely was just in a little more of a rush.”

A runner shoved a note under Flax's nose. DILLWATER WANTS TO TALK PROM, it read.

“I'm sorry, Patrick. This thing isn't easy for any of us. Look, I've been informed that Dillwater wants to talk to you….”

“Tell him to take a running jump. There's nothing to talk about now.”

“Patrick, Major Winter, the director of NASA is coming through.”

There was a long pause. Flax had the feeling that Patrick was about to tell him what he could do with the director of NASA. If he had, he wouldn't have blamed him. Instead Patrick answered calmly; if his voice held any emotion at all it was simply that of resignation.

“Prometheus to Mission Control, ready to accept your message.”

Flax jabbed his finger at the Communications Console and the connection was made.

“Simon Dillwater here.”

“Prometheus. What do you want, Mr. Dillwater?”

“Major Winter, have you heard of an emergency engine program entitled HOOPSNAKE?”

“No. The person you would have to ask about that is our engine expert, Dr. Ely Bron. I would let you talk to him only he is being very discourteous. He's just died.”

“What? Did you. . I'm very sorry, I had not heard. This is terrible---”

“Everything is terrible, Mr. Diltwater. Now what is this HOOPSNAKE you were talking about?”

Flax wondered as well, he had never heard of it either.

“It is an emergency program. I classified it myself because at the time I thought it both a dangerous and foolish suggestion. But, in the light of changing circumstances… and under the orders of the President

“You're hesitating Mr. Dillwater, which is not like you.” It was hard to make out from the even tone of his voice if Patrick was being serious or sarcastic. Either was possible now.

“I am sorry, Major Winter. Believe me I am. I do not relish this duty. But I must tell you that a program exists, HOOP-SNAKE, that details how the>atomic engine of Prometheus may be detonated. That is how the fuel and the engine may be used to cause an atomic explosion.”

“That's interesting as hell, Dillwater, but why are you telling me now?”

“You are making me spell it out, Major Winter, and I do not blame you. Simply said, if and when Prometheus crashes it will cause widespread destruction and death. You can appreciate what this will mean.”

Patrick interrupted. “I do, Mr. Dillwater, and I'm sorry I spoke the way I did. Understandable but not justifiable. When this thing hits we die in any case. If Prometheus could be exploded in space it would not crash and many lives would be saved. Is that what you were going to say, Mr. Dillwater?”

“Thank you, Major Winter. You put me to shame for I know I could never do what you are doing. But that, in essence, is what I was going to say.”

PHONE CALL FOR YOU the note read.

“Tell them to hold,” Flax said.

“Person-to-person,” the messenger said. “Can only hold a couple of minutes.”