Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

The tram arrived and everyone climbed aboard. A recorded voice warned them to be seated. When they had, the vehicle began to move.

Two professorial types took seats in front of Rick. One wore a black woolen sweater against the swirl of air in the open vehicle. He was speaking intently, but Rick caught one word: chaplain.

The tram moved into a thick patch of forest. Rick edged forward.

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I saw the list just before I came over. Did you know him?" Both speakers wore glasses, and both were neatly barbered.

"Just from the bridge club."

Rick recalled the nervous-looking man on the speaker's platform and wondered why they were talking about him in the past tense.

A fair approximation of sunlight filtered through the overhang. The air smelled of spring.

Rick leaned forward. "Pardon me," he said, "did something happen to him?"

Both men turned. "To whom?"

"To the chaplain."

"He's staying behind," said the man with the sweater.

Birds sang, and a chipmunk stood atop a log, watching them pass. The two men returned to their conversation. And Rick found the news disquieting.

The tram entered a tunnel. Lights blinked on and shadows raced along the walls. After a few minutes they turned into a curve and began to slow. The recorded voice advised them that the vehicle would be stopping momentarily.

He leaned back.

"None of this is your responsibility, Monica." Female voice behind him, husky, angry. "You're just like me. We're low-graded employees. We take our paychecks and we do our jobs. We never got paid for anything like this. It's not our responsibility."

"Whose responsibility is it?"

"People like Hampton. Look, the executives of the world take the money, give all the orders, get all the perks, and when the load of shit comes in, they're supposed to deal with it. They are. Not you. Not me."

The tram began to slow. It glided to a halt, rocked gently from side to side, settled onto a platform, and stopped. The gates whispered open.

"You want to go down there and sign on? I'm sure they'd be glad to have you," the husky voice said.

Rick watched the two women get off. They were both in their twenties. Both attractive. One black, one white.

"Just don't forget," said the black woman, "dead's forever."

The passengers filed out and rode an escalator up to a higher level, where they followed a passageway and divided into waiting areas marked YELLOW and GREEN. Rick's boarding document indicated GREEN.

The launchpads were visible through wall-length Plexiglas. The Micro crouched in its network of umbilicals and screening. Jets of steam escaped from its underbelly. Technicians were going over her, checking off items on notepads. He heard static on the public address system, and then a voice: "Passengers on the yellow flight are boarding now. Green flight is running about ten minutes behind."

A few people got up, said their good-byes, and wandered out through a doorway.

The vice president of the United States was standing off to one side of the service desk. He looked lost. Rick glanced at Sam Anderson, who made a sour face and shrugged. Rick felt as if he were living in one of those alternate realities so popular in the cinema.

"You okay, Charlie?" he asked.

Charlie shook himself. "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."

Rick produced a sheet of paper. "I've put together a statement for you. I think we should release it as soon as we're on the plane."

He glanced over it but did not appear to read it.

"It just says you're leaving under protest, that you want to stay on here but the president insists you return immediately, and that you see no recourse, and so on."

"Good." Haskell looked as if he'd aged overnight. A couple of people came over and asked to shake his hand. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vice President, they said. And, Good luck in the primaries. No assumption here he'd get the nomination. When they left, Charlie shook his head but said nothing.

Rick was silent for a time. "I heard," he said, "that the chaplain's staying, too."

"The chaplain?" Charlie's eyes narrowed.

"Yeah," said Rick. "I thought the same thing."

More hand-shakers appeared. The vice president was his usual cordial self. He had the gift of making the person to whom he was speaking feel as if his entire day had been directed toward that meeting. He was happy to make their acquaintance, he said. And he was proud of what they'd accomplished.

"What same thing?" he asked Rick when they were alone again.

"Well, you know. The chaplain doesn't look like the kind of guy who'd do that."

Haskell closed his eyes momentarily. The public address system announced that GREEN flight was ready to board.

"Time to go," said Rick.

The vice president didn't move for a long time. Finally he shook his head. "No," he said. "I can't do this." He turned to Sam, who was developing a horror-struck expression. "You and your people get on the flight," he said. "See that someone gets my ticket."

"I can't do that," protested Sam.

"Do it. I'll see that your protests go on record." He shook hands with Rick and thanked him.

"What are you doing?" asked Rick.

"I'm not sure," said Charlie. "But I know what I can't do." Copenhagen Flight Deck. 12:51 P.M.

Nora Ehrlich ignited her engines, and let them idle while she glided along her orbital path. Then, at precisely at 1:02 P.M., she applied thrust, and the space plane, carrying 136 passengers, lifted out of orbit and started for home. Moonbase, Grissom Country. 1:47 P.M.

Evelyn Hampton had left Moonbase evacuation to Jack Chandler, and had devoted her time to preparing Moonbase International to deal with the situation. She'd nominated the person whom she wished to succeed her, had developed a strategy that might allow the corporation, after going Chapter Eleven, to revive itself in a new form. "We can't just give up," she'd told the board of directors. "The technologies now exist to expand beyond Earth. The experience with Tomiko should not deter us; rather, it should serve as a warning." For a start, she thought, there was Project Skybolt, an orbiting laser system that would have been capable of slicing incoming asteroids into rubble. But the program had inevitably been perceived as pork. It was an easy target for budget cutters, and after fifteen years and several abortive starts, it had still not gotten off the drawing boards. Even Culpepper had opposed it. We don't need it at this time. It would not, of course, have been much use against Tomiko, but it might have been nice to have in the aftermath of the collision if pieces of the moon began drifting earthward. If we learn nothing else from this, we now know that the hazards are very real and there's a legitimate need for planetary defenses. But there's more to it. A lot more.

Expansion seemed to be built into the genes of the species. Expand or stagnate. But the Western governments were heavily in debt. If there was going to be a drive off-planet, private interests would have to show the way, would have to demonstrate a payoff. It would have to become a moneymaker.

That hadn't happened yet. Wouldn't have happened for years to come. But there were still off-world industries to be developed. And if the Moon has been here just long enough to allow us to use it as a springboard, then we should be grateful for that.

The important thing now, she told MBI, is that we do not go back into the shell. The current generation has the equipment and the knowledge to begin the process. If these people are forced into other lines of work, if the buses and ferries and SSTOs are mothballed, then it'll be over. Certainly for our lifetimes. Maybe forever.

She prepared a few farewells that she'd send out tomorrow, if necessary. She was spending much of her time now in Jack Chandler's company. Unspoken communications passed between them, a glance, a smile, a shrug. They'd always been close, but now she felt a connection that went beyond anything she had ever felt with another human being. It was as if a psychic link now existed, enabling her to read his thoughts and share his emotions.