Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

“For Christ's sake, not now. Who is it?”

“A Wolfgang Ernsting.”

“Get the number. I'll call him back.” Patrick was talking again. He had missed part of what they had said.

“… not my decision. I'll explain to the rest of the crew and we will contact you. I don't know what they will say but, since time is a consideration, I suggest you put the program on the teleprinter to us so we will have a copy here.”

“I don't know, is that possible?”

“Mission Control here,” Flax said. “There is a classified military telex in the White House which hooks into our printer here. Begin sending soonest and I'll have it relayed to the printer in Prometheus.”

“Yes, I'll take care of that.”

“Prometheus out.”

Flax threw the switch and collapsed back into his chair. Just too much. Then he stirred and called Communications Console. “See that a copy of that HOOPSNAKE thing reaches me as soon as it's printed. I want to know just what they have in mind.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want me to place that call now?”

“What call?”

“Wolfgang Ernsting.”

“No, hold that. Get me through to that French observatory, the solar one that's been looking at the sun spots.”

They must have been holding a line open because the call went through in seconds. The conversation was less satisfactory. The astronomer had very little English and Flax, tired as he was, could hardly think of a word of French. But the meaning, or lack of meaning, soon became clear. Yes there was solar activity as predicted. No, not yet was it as strong as predicted, but that could change at any moment. Any guess when? Anytime. Great. Thank you and goodbye. Flax groaned as he broke the connection. No contact yet from Prometheus. They must still be talking about HOOPSNAKE — what a wonderful conversation that must be! Or perhaps, like him, they were too stunned for any of this to have much effect any more.

There was something he must do. What? Take a leak. That would wait, but barely. Something else. Right, Wolfgang. What the hell had he called him about in the first place? It was only hours ago that he had placed the call yet it seemed like weeks. Prometheus was still silent. Call him and get it over with.

“Put that Ernsting call through,” Flax said.

Fatigue and the pressure of events pressed Flax deep into the chair, his mouth hanging slightly open, his skin gray and damp. No one noticed — for they were all in approximately the same condition. The connection was made and his phone buzzed; he switched it to his mike and headphone.

“Hello, Wolfgang. I tried you earlier but… what?”

The words whispered quickly into his ear were like some new form of energy because, as he listened his body grew tense, drew taut, sat up and leaned forward, his hand pressing the headset hard against his ear so that he would not miss a word. The fatigue was gone and replaced by a savagely burning anger.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. You are absolutely sure? I know. I'll try not to involve you if I can, I know what it means. I'll do my best. Yes. You were right to have told me. Whatever comes of this, whatever happens you remember that. It is something to remember for the rest of your life, Mein lieber Freund. Goodbye.”

“Prometheus calling Mission Control. Can you patch us through to Mr. Dill water…”

“No,” Flax shouted, then louder, jumping to his feet. “NO! I am connecting you to the President of the United States, Dillwater as well, and the entire cabinet who are meeting at this time. Before they hear what you have to say I want them to hear what I have to say.”

At every console heads were turned, the strained faces staring in awe at Flax's massive form as he stood, quaking with anger, shouting into the radio.

GET 25:57

“Gregor, I need your help in here,” Patrick called out.

“One moment, I will be there.”

Nadya was on the far couch, the one that had been Colonel Kuznekov's, possibly asleep; with her eyes bandaged it was not easy to tell. Gregor was helping Coretta to put Ely's body into a sleeping bag. She went about it so calmly that he was ashamed of his emotions as he felt the cold skin, the limp arms. He had never touched a corpse before and it was doubly horrible here in space. It was too soon for rigor mortis to have set in, he had always thought it happened almost instantly after death, but the corpse was still difficult to handle, to force into the tight confines of the bag.

“This is not working,” Coretta said. “Pull it off. Hold him while I fix the bag.” She rolled it back on itself then, like putting on a stocking, rolled it neatly down over the body.

“What should we do with…?” Gregor asked.

“Nothing, I imagine,” Coretta said slowly. “No burial, no service either I guess. Let's just strap him to the bunk.”

“Here on this one,” Nadya said, sitting up. “Someone guide me, if you please.”

Gregor was glad to leave the compartment, to answer Patrick's call.

“Turn on the teleprinter, will you,” Patrick said, his blind eyes looking into darkness, pointing where he knew the machine was. “Just throw the switch to on, then the other switch to transmit. Type 'ready to receive' and turn the switch back to receive.”

“Easy enough.” Gregor did this and as soon as he had switched to receive, the machine began to chatter rapidly. The first thing it typed was HOOPSNAKE OPERATION DESCRIPTION.

“What is this?” Gregor asked.

“Get the others in here, I want to tell them top.”

In a calm, unemotional voice, Patrick explained what Dill-water had told him, what the program was that was coming out line by line from the teleprinter. Gregor accepted the news stoically, with Slavic resignation. Coretta was not quite sure what it meant.

“Engine self-destruction program?”

Patrick nodded. “It would be simpler to say make-the-engine-a-bomb program. They want us to rig the thing to blow ourselves up to prevent greater loss of lives on Earth.”

“That's nice,” Coretta said, not hiding the bitterness in her voice. “They get us up here, strand us up here, shoot a bomb at us, then expect us, out of gratitude, to commit atomic suicide. Why don't they just shoot off another bomb? Maybe the American aim will be better than the Soviet.”

“They must have their reasons,” Patrick said. “Probably because there could be no guarantee of the complete destruction needed to eliminate us and our atomic fuel. What do you think, Gregor?”

“I? Nothing. If we die a few minutes earlier or later we are just as dead. You are the Commander, the decision is yours.”

“No, we all have to vote on this Nadya?”

“Follow the instructions, blow us all up, get it over with.”

There was more pain than resignation in her voice; Patrick knew how she felt, shared the same emotions. The ache in his eyes was only dulled by the drugs, the pain of their failure was even stronger. “Your vote, Coretta?” he asked.

“Me? Does it matter what I think? You are going to be real Gung Ho and logical about it in the end and put the safety of the world ahead of a few minutes more of our happy lives. So go on and do it and don't bother me.” Her voice was rising, she was beginning to shout, and she realized suddenly that she was losing control. The trained physician, cool and abstract, getting hysterical while the two blind pilots remained calm and stoical in the face of this final adversity. She took a shuddering breath and tried to imitate their control. “Sorry to blow my cool.”

“You have every reason,” Patrick told her.

“I guess I do, but so do the rest of you, with even more reason, and I don't see you enjoying any self-pity. I'll try to be logical. If we are going to die in any case in minutes, hours, whatever the latest estimate is….”