Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

The lead boat was a twin-engine white and maroon Mainship motor yacht with Yankee Liz painted on her bow. "Ramsey," said Bolling to his radio operator, "Bring Liz up."

Ramsey was not much more than a kid, just out of school. He spoke into his microphone, listened, nodded, looked at his skipper. Bolling gestured for the mike.

"Yankee Liz," he said, "this is the Coast Guard. Where are you bound?"

He could see the boat's captain on its bridge, hunched over the radio. He was a short, dumpy man, but it was too dark to make out other details. "Getting clear of the Sound tonight," he said.

"Where are you headed?" asked Bolling again.

"Peekskill."

"All of you? Are you traveling together?"

"Some are going to Croton-on-Hudson."

"Nobody going to sea?"

"No, sir."

"Very good, Captain. Thank you."

Off to port, LaGuardia Airport was quiet. Bolling had seen it like that before, idled by a heavy storm or by a strike. The tower looked active, and he could see vehicles moving on the approach roads. But there were no lights in the sky.

They passed Rikers Island and Hell Gate.

Reliant was out of sight now.

The city crouched on the river, insensate, timeless, invulnerable. Headlights moved along both banks, climbed the approaches, and crossed on the Triborough.

They continued down to the foot of Manhattan, making perhaps better time than Bolling would ordinarily have allowed, but he felt crowded by the narrow channels of the East River. Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty came into view. The harbor looked serene, traffic flowing in an endless stream around its perimeter. A ferry nosed past them.

He checked his schedule. The ferries were going to discontinue service at 2230 hours. "I'm surprised they didn't decide to close the bridges until it's over," he said.

"I think that'd be a nightmare, Captain," said Packard. "I don't think you do that unless you really believe something's coming."

They'd been talking about it all day. Neither would admit to anything except skepticism. Another typical government hassle. But Bolling was nevertheless happy to get through the Narrows and out into the Atlantic.

Micro. 10:07 P.M.

The landing lights at Alphonsus were bright and crisp, cheerful against the bleak landscape as Tony and Saber rode the beacon down. The Sun was below the eastern highlands, probably just a few hours from dawn. The crater looked different, unfamiliar, in the strange light.

As soon as the interview with Keith Morley had ended, Saber had gone down to the cargo deck to get into her p-suit. Tony was glad it was over. The prospect of speaking to millions of people had scared him more than the comet. Below, lights switched on and the roof doors began to roll back.

"Micro." Bigfoot's voice on the radio. "Tony, how are we doing?"

"On target."

"Okay. Everybody here's packed and ready to go."

"Roger that."

"But we've lost one."

"Say again, Moonbase."

"We lost one. Chandler's not coming."

"Roger." Pause. "Why not?"

"Bad heart." Bigfoot changed his tone. "As soon as you're on the pad, we'll proceed as planned. Is Saber in her gear?"

"She will be in a couple of minutes."

"Okay. I'm going to have to close down now. I need time to get through the airlock."

"Roger."

"When I get into the bay, I'll still be able to talk to you, but I won't be able to see any of the instruments. So you'll be on your own."

"I know." Manual descent into the terminal wasn't routine, but Tony didn't anticipate any problems.

"We'll have a beacon to ride out."

"Good. See you in a few minutes, Bigfoot." He broke the connection and buzzed Saber. "On final approach."

"Okay," she said. "I'm ready." Moonbase Spaceport. 10:08 P.M.

The Spaceport accommodated nine service bays. Two of these were designed for cargo carriers; four housed the lobbers and hoppers that were used for short- or long-range lunar transportation. The remaining three served the buses that connected Moonbase with L1. Each, of course, could be depressurized individually and opened to the void through a set of overhead doors.

While he talked to the Micro, Bigfoot had been sitting in a p-suit. Now he pulled on his helmet, checked his systems, picked up a remote and shoved it into a pocket, and entered the Bay Four airlock. He'd already depressurized the bay, opened its overhead doors, and turned on its touchdown lights.

When the board went green he opened the hatch and stepped into the work area. He'd laid out the umbilicals earlier, lox and powdered aluminum for fuel, others carrying an electrical recharge, water, and air. He'd also put out several transparent plastic bags filled with sealant, patches, wrenches, peanut butter (who knew how long this trip might take?), and spare parts other than those the bus normally carried. He studied them briefly, trying to think if he'd forgotten anything. Nothing came to mind.

He activated his radio. "Tony, I'm in the bay."

"Roger that. We're at twelve hundred meters."

He looked up. The tongue of flame from the main engine was moving against the stars. "I see you."

"How's the comet doing?"

"It's doing fine. It's inside a million kilometers," said Bigfoot.

Right on time.

Routine procedure called for Moonbase personnel to track incoming vehicles and maintain a constant flow of data exchange until they were safely down. But had Bigfoot stayed inside to do that, it would have taken too long to get through the airlock. Still, there was no real risk here. The bay was built to accommodate the much larger 2665 bus, so there was plenty of room, probably an average of ten meters' clearance on a side. Bigfoot wouldn't have worried at all except that he had a pilot in a hurry.

He released the stops on the umbilicals and laid them out close to the pad, setting each so he could activate the flow at the nozzle. When he was satisfied he could do no more, he recalled that Keith Morley had given him the microcam to set up inside the bay. He looked around, found a table, extended the instrument's legs as he'd been shown, and pointed it toward the pad. (He'd warned Morley that he might not have time to recover it, but Morley said that he didn't want it recovered, that he wanted shots of the Micro pulling in and leaving.) Then he climbed behind a heat shield and tapped into the public address system.

"This is Caparatti," he said. "Are you folks at the door?"

Evelyn responded. "We're ready to go, Bigfoot." She still didn't sound so good, he thought.

"Okay. We'll be opening up in about five minutes. Keith, you're all set and ready to go."

"Thanks, Bigfoot," said the newsman. "My director's asked if you can move it a little bit left. Just a few degrees."

Bigfoot complied, changing the angle until Morley said it was okay.

The rim of Earth was visible through the overhead doors.

Tony's voice on the radio: "How do I look, Bigfoot?"

Dammit, he didn't like trying to eyeball the Micro in from here. "Drifting east a couple of points," he said. "As best I can tell."

"Roger."

Bigfoot watched him compensate. "That's good. Keep coming." Safety regulations prohibited personnel from entering this area during landing or launch operations. The chance of getting caught in the backwash was high. The heat shield behind which he hid was designed to protect equipment.

One hundred meters.

A clock on the control room wall showed ten thirteen.

The bay brightened in the glow of the rocket engines. He heard the two pilots talking to each other, switched to another channel, and listened to Keith Morley reporting to his global audience. Damned if he didn't sound as if he were enjoying every minute.

Bigfoot had known people like that during his brief tenure with the Packers, guys who seemed absolutely fearless, who thrived on risk.