Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

It was, they said, only our frustration at seeing this truth, at having it written large across our skies, that drove the invention of religion. Yet it seemed we had drawn someone's attention. The nucleus half-hidden in the ruddy glow of streamer and mist looked like nothing so much as a devil's eye. Moonbase, Communications Center. 11:46 A.M.

The young woman who'd attracted Rick's attention on his first-day tour of the public relations suite was Andrea Bellwether, a communications technician. She was British, a native of Portsmouth, where she'd grown up in sight of Nelson's Victory. She was the daughter of Frank Bellwether, commander of the Ranger on its fateful first voyage. Andrea had been six when her father tried to bring down the crippled vessel and had skimmed off the atmosphere and ricocheted in the general direction of Canopus.

That had been the darkest time of her life. She remembered the phone conversations with her father, she remembered not understanding why he could not come home, she remembered most of all his telling her to be brave. Your mother will need you.

After a while the calls stopped. Years later Andrea learned that when the crew began to run out of air they opened the hatches.

When she'd arrived at Moonbase, her coworkers assumed the appointment had been political. Something for the hero's daughter. In truth, it had been, but that didn't mean the appointment was weak. After a year and a half, Andrea was as good as anyone they had.

The commcenter had never been busier. The usually steady flow of traffic had become a torrent.

They planned to stay functional until midday Saturday. It would mean some of the technicians would have to go home on the late flight Saturday, the one that would barely get out before the collision. Andrea felt she should offer to stay. But life was sweet, and she wasn't sure she was ready to put it on the line quite so cavalierly.

Under ordinary conditions, four people were sufficient to staff the operation. But there were already seven technicians working when Andrea arrived. The supervisor set her up at a temporary routing position. "Just do the best you can," he advised.

Usually the work involved a run of administrative traffic, personnel data sheets, financial updates, confirmations of supply orders, advertisements hawking equipment that would be of value to Moonbase. There were responses to queries by Moonbase research people for project information of one kind or another, studies of chemical components in Arizona soil, comparisons of apparent magnitude of various stars as seen from Australia and the Moon, new information on ocean currents. Much of it had nothing to do with the Moon per se, but researchers were curious people, and they tended to try to keep up with everything.

But today every news service in the world wanted to know how Moonbase was doing, whether morale was holding up, whom they could interview. There's a great human interest angle, they were saying, people in a remote place facing a danger unlike anything we've seen before. How did it feel? Was anyone breaking under the strain?

The personal mail alone exceeded their usual total traffic. The voice channels were overloaded, which meant that person-to-person conversations simply weren't happening, unless you happened to be Evelyn Hampton or the vice president of the United States. Consequently, alternate channels were piling up. Thousands of requests for information about relatives and friends had already overloaded the buffers. They were also getting advice, warnings, suggestions from everyone with access to a keyboard.

"YOUR BEST CHANCE IS TO PUT THE SPACE PLANES ON EXACTLY THE SAME COURSE AS THE COMET, BUT WITH THE MOON DIRECTLY BETWEEN."

"YOU'LL BE SAFE IF YOU STAY ON THE MOON. ITS SPIN WILL REDIRECT THE ENERGY FROM THE COLLISION HARMLESSLY INTO SPACE. BUT STAY OFF THE PLANES."

"YOU PEOPLE SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES. THIS IS ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF GOVERNMENT WASTE."

The bulk of incoming traffic came with distribution codes. But the rest of it could be anything, so Andrea had to look at each message, determine a recipient, and send it on. The obviously crank transmissions normally went to the chief of the watch, who dumped them. But today Andrea had been told to use her judgment. Get rid of the crazy stuff.

A programmed response was put together for the news organizations: MOONBASE APPRECIATES YOUR INTEREST, BUT REGRETS THAT IT IS UNABLE TO ANSWER INDIVIDUAL QUERIES AT THIS TIME. CORRESPONDENTS ARE ASSURED WE ARE MAKING PROGRESS IN OUR EFFORT TO EVACUATE EVERYONE SAFELY, AND ARE REFERRED TO OUR HOURLY NEWS BULLETINS.

There was a message for her, from her mother, who lived in Edinburgh: "I KNOW HOW MUCH THE JOB UP THERE MEANS TO YOU. BUT WE'LL BOUNCE BACK THE WAY WE ALWAYS DO." And to her surprise she found one from an old flame, from whom she hadn't heard since college: "ANDI, I STILL LOVE YOU. COME HOME SAFE."

That had been a long time ago.

A bell signaled the arrival of a priority message, to be signed for by Vice President Haskell. That meant a hard copy. She ran it off, looked at it, and saw that the VP was being ordered out early. On the next flight. To facilitate communications and assist in organizing the emergency response effort.

She had heard that not everyone was going to get out, so she wondered whether the White House was trying to rescue a heroic vice president who was determined to stay. Or get one out who'd talked too much and walked into an embarrassing situation.

She showed it to the chief of the watch.

"Okay." He took it from her. "I'll see that it gets delivered."

Major market indices dropped sharply again for the second day in a row. Concern for the financial stability of Moonbase International and the Lunar Transport Authority fueled steep declines across a broad range of issues…

Moonbase, Grissom Country. 12:03 P.M.

Charlie was alone when the message came. "… just received in the commcenter, Mr. Vice President. For you." The messenger was a boy, probably not eighteen. "I need you to sign for it, sir."

Charlie complied. "Why are you still here, son?" he asked. "When are you leaving?"

"I'm scheduled out tomorrow." The boy was an African-American, and he gazed at Charlie with the almost wistful respect that vice presidents automatically command from all except those who know them well. "The early flight."

"Good luck," said Charlie.

He smiled shyly. "You too, sir."

Then he was gone and Charlie was alone with his escape hatch. What a terrible break the Micro incident had been. They'd been close to turning all this around. Haskell hangs on until the end. It would have been dynamite, and might have carried him all the way to the nomination.

But now people were going to die. And he knew the other candidates would beat him into the ground with his early exit. In fact, he'd have little choice when he stepped off the plane except to withdraw from the race. Rick pretended not to think so, but Rick had a tougher skin than he did.

Charlie was tired.

Evelyn was going to stay.

Jack Chandler was also going to stay. Chandler was only a passing acquaintance, but Charlie had shaken hands with the man. Talked with him. Wished him luck.

Charlie had come face to face with himself and he didn't like what he was seeing.

He looked at his watch and thought about calling Evelyn. Wish her luck, ask if there were anything he could do. Say good-bye.

Son of a bitch.

However he tried to squirm out of it, he would remain forever the man who ran away. Moonbase, Chaplain's Office. 12:09 P.M.

A substantial number of people came by the chapel on this last full day to say good-bye and to wish Mark Pinnacle well. They all knew that some of the senior staff were staying behind, and Mark noted a range of reactions. People were pleasantly surprised, some maintaining that they'd expected the heavyweights to be the first ones clear. Others were skeptical, and suggested it was a hoax and nobody was really in danger. Most, however, were saddened.