Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

He'd tried to stay close to the president, but Haskell was up front in the copilot's chair and Lee Cochran was up there too, so there was no room for Morley.

But this president seemed to be unusually aware of the influence of the media. He called to tell Morley they were on schedule, and that was good, but Morley still had no real details. Nevertheless, he knew approximately what was supposed to happen throughout the operation, so he began simply to fabricate an account, assuming everything was happening as it should, and that they'd tell him if something went wrong. And there was this: If he was wrong, if he was caught hanging out, the world was going to have bigger problems than to simply come after an unfortunate journalist.

"The Possum's tumble has slowed by about thirty percent," he told a global audience. SSTO Berlin Flight Deck. 4:21 A.M. Zero plus seven.

It may have been there were just too many things that could go wrong, too many moving parts, too much guesswork, too much improvisation.

The radio operator from the Mabry was reporting that the Possum was accelerating precisely along predicted lines. Gruder had never doubted it would be so. Assume success, adhere to the math, prepare for breakdowns, and keep focused on the task at hand. It was the formula around which he'd built his professional life. Unlike the bureaucrats, who were fond of saying "Win some, lose some."

So far there'd been little for him to do. He sat inside his p-suit, savoring the experience and contemplating a future filled with people pointing him out and saying, Yes, that's Gruder Muller; he was with the fleet when they turned the Possum aside. If he never did anything else it wouldn't matter. He could die tomorrow and his life would have been a success.

It was a glorious feeling. He'd always wanted to be a hero, and it was actually happening.

"Zero plus eight," said the Mabry. "Vector still looks good."

The Berlin crew had been on the Possum for almost three hours, and Gruder had detected a pattern in the way the Sun and Earth crisscrossed the skies of the microworld. It had been impossible to predict, except in very general terms, where a celestial body would rise. But he'd gotten the timing down. And now everything was running late. A good sign.

The view ahead was obstructed by a low mound, not much higher than the top of the spacecraft and flowing off into embracing ridges on either side. As he watched, the rim of Earth appeared over its left-hand incline.

Willem Stephan glanced at the fuel-use indicator. They had a ten-minute supply left at full burn. The program had nine minutes to run. Perfect. Stephan opened a channel to his crew. "I think we all deserve a good dinner when we get back," he said.

Kathleen, sitting beside him, raised her left hand to caution against premature celebration. Gruder, however, was of the same mind as the pilot, and had begun to think that sauerbraten and beer would fit the occasion well.

One of the imponderables had been the cohesiveness and stability of the rock. Feinberg had been forced to make estimates based on sensor readings and samples, which would not necessarily reveal, say, fissures or stress fractures. The rock in the area of the Berlin, which had melted during the collision with Tomiko, had not sufficiently rehardened before enduring a pair of subsequent collisions. As a result, it had developed a series of microscopic cracks. The twin rocket engines, operating at full thrust, were putting extreme pressure on the cracks. Now, while Gruder contemplated sauerbraten, one of them broke under the strain.

The port-side piton tore loose from the rock. The spacecraft twisted violently to starboard. Willem went immediately to manual, intending to shut off the engines. But it was too late. The rear piton broke apart within seconds, and the starboard side crumpled immediately thereafter. The SSTO roared across the rockscape and blasted into the mound at full throttle. Both fuel tanks exploded, and a fireball rose into the sky.

"… just moments ago. Authorities haven't yet said what effect the loss of the plane will have on the mission. We can hope, Don, that the process was far enough along that the remaining six spacecraft will be enough to finish the job. As of this moment there's just no word. We're trying to get through now to get a statement. Meanwhile, let's break away to Kitt Peak where the astronomers have been watching developments closely.

"This is Keith Morley on the Percival Lowell, anchored on the Possum." Antonia Mabry, Mission Control. 4:24 A.M.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, dammit!" Feinberg, who'd always prided himself on his aplomb, heard his voice going shrill. He was close to tears. The silhouettes on the display had separated and were growing steadily farther apart.

"If we keep pushing-" insisted Carpenter.

"It won't be enough. All we've done so far is move the impact point to the southeast."

"Where?"

"My God, I don't know. Do we care?"

"Yes, we care."

"Okay. Try eastern Florida. Jacksonville, maybe. Cape Canaveral. The ocean. Who knows?"

The phone sounded. "That'll be Haskell," said Carpenter. He looked panicked. "What do we tell him?"

"The truth," said Feinberg. "Tell him the truth. Meantime, I suggest we shut down." Percival Lowell Flight Deck. 4:25 A.M.

"So we just give up?" Charlie's blood pounded in his temples.

The steady thrum of Lowell's engine died as it went to its equivalent of idle. "We don't have any option, Mr. President."

"Why not? What do we lose by trying?"

There was a click and Feinberg was on the line. "You must accept the situation, sir," he said. "It cannot be done, and we are only pushing the impact point east. Toward the Atlantic. If this thing falls into the ocean, which is already a distinct possibility, you'll be looking at an even greater catastrophe."

Charlie sagged. "My God in heaven."

"There's simply nothing we can do," said Feinberg.

Carpenter came back: "We've directed the Kordeshev to stand by to pick you up, and the Talley is on its way to get the crewmembers off Arlington. Please be ready to go. We've only got thirty minutes to effect the rescues. We're going to direct the other spacecraft to release the pitons and get the hell off the rock."

"No," said Charlie. "Isn't there any kind of fallback plan at all?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry. We've done what we could. We've done everything we could." Feinberg again, sounding annoyed, defensive.

The flight deck swam. Charlie had conceived an animosity for the Possum, a personal loathing. He still had an option, he could still nuke the son of a bitch. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to keep his head. "We still have some time. Let's think about it. There must be something…"

"If you can come up with an idea, Mr. President, you're a better man than I am. Meanwhile, the Arlington and your own vessel are chained to the rock. If we don't get the crews out quickly, including yourself, you'll all go down with it."

"We'll stay put for now," said Charlie. "Nobody leaves until I give the order. You understand?"

"Mr. President-" Carpenter's voice. "Please-"

"Be ready to move if you have to. But not till I tell you." But physics is not politics. You can't make something work just by trying harder.

He broke the connection and stared into a red haze.

"You all right, sir?" Rachel's voice.

"I'm fine," he said. "We're not doing so good, but I'm fine."

"What was it with the Berlin? A blown piton?"

"I guess. I don't know."

She nodded. The flight deck was silent. "I've got all kinds of calls for you, Mr. President."

"Not now," he said.