Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

"It's becoming a little hard to talk. I'm getting pushed into my seat. My weight's come back, but I feel as if I weigh an extra hundred pounds or so. The sky's different from the way it looked when I came last week. It's lit up.

"I can't see the pilot. The door to the flight deck is closed. Saber Rolnikaya came through here from the cargo deck minutes ago and went up to the cockpit. She was wearing a p-suit and carrying her helmet, which she handed to me. I'm going to hang on to it as a souvenir of the occasion.

"However this turns out, everyone should be aware, Bruce, that this is a group of very special people. You can't see any of them anymore, but they're hanging on pretty well. I don't know what's running through their minds right now, but I can tell you what's running through mine. I'm scared." AstroLab. 10:33 P.M.

Feinberg had gone to the AstroLab, where he watched the approach from the operations room. A dozen monitors displayed magnetic fluctuations, relative velocity, comet brightness, spectrum analysis. The Farside observatory had used its chemical oxygen iodine laser to vaporize a small section of Tomiko. The analysis showed slight but significant amounts of titanium and aluminum. What kind of comet carried processed metals?

"I really wonder about it," Feinberg told an assistant whom he trusted not to quote him. "We might be suffering a loss of monumental proportions."

The assistant understood he was not talking about the Moon. Or the hazards from falling rock. She nodded.

"I wish we could have got a closer look," Feinberg continued. "Landed on it. Dug it up."

"It's moving too fast," she said. "Even if it were just passing through, we could never have caught up with it."

Feinberg stared at Tomiko's image in the displays. What are you?

Tomiko had lost a substantial fraction of its initially observed velocity. But it was still running with the solar wind at almost twenty-four thousand kilometers per minute. Halfway around Earth in thirty seconds.

Astronomers were still trying to account for the velocity. A mathematician at the University of Hamburg, noted for metaphysical ramblings, suggested that the comet had in fact been aimed, that its velocity was intended to demonstrate that it was not part of a natural event, and that the pinpoint strike on the Moon was a warning. He did not elaborate.

The networks and the Web, during the final hours before impact, had been filled with admonitions to get right with God.

The Moon was in its first quarter. Seen from New York, it was in the western sky. The comet was a magnificent sight, spread across the heavens, its tail leading the way, overwhelming the Moon, reaching across the Atlantic and diving beneath the horizon. The corona, on the other hand, was bright and solid, a sheath of golden light.

Marilyn Keep watched Tomiko closing in from Louise's terrace. Larry seemed content to talk finances with the boys, to leave her in Marv's company, to behave as if he were the only male in the world. By ten-thirty she'd had too much to drink. Marv was taking advantage of whatever occasional solitude they could find, a brief interlude on the terrace, a moment passing each other in a corridor, to brush lightly against buttock or breast. She didn't mind it at all, as long as they did not get caught. She liked the brief suggestion of possession, enjoyed the sudden fluttering excitement. It was the first time during her marriage she'd allowed anything like this. When she looked reprovingly at Marv, his eyes glowed with mischief. And his fingertips casually touched her hip, as if it were something they did all the time, as if they shared some mutual secret. So it happened that, as the comet touched the Moon, while all eyes turned skyward, Marilyn was really quite busy with something else.

At Point Judith, Luke Peterson watched from his backyard through a pair of field glasses. He'd read enough, and seen enough, to know there was more danger near the water. But the night was peaceful, and the sky was full of stars, except where the comet wiped them out. This was where he lived. If God had set the machinery in motion to take him tonight, well then, God would find him at home.

And no complaints.

It was raining in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and no one was going to see the Moon at all. Claire Hasson and Archie Pickman sat with the three Esterhazys, watching Keith Morley's report from the launchpad. It was all very exciting for Archie, despite the skepticism of his hosts. "See," said the elder Esterhazy to no one in particular, as the Micro fled the lunar surface, "what did I tell you? They're free and clear." His son Jeff was very much like him, except for a condescending smile that seemed to have become a permanent part of his features. Other than that, he had the same pinched face, the same bullet head, the same irritatingly self-confident expression. The male Esterhazys were not persons with whom one spoke; they were persons to whom one paid attention.

Archie was worried that the vice president was going to get killed.

"Ridiculous," said Jeff. "You don't really believe this, do you?" He looked sympathetically at Archie.

"What part of it don't you believe?"

"Archie," said Scott, speaking with the dry voice of experience, "this whole thing's an election stunt."

"You think the White House controls comets?"

"Don't get upset," said Jeff. "But these people saw their opportunity and took advantage of it. They've choreographed everything so Haskell comes out of it looking like a hero. There's no danger, never has been. It's going to look close, it has to look close, but they'll get clear okay."

Archie saw Mariel Esterhazy frowning and shaking her head at her husband. Please shut up, the gesture said. "I don't think so," said Archie.

"That's the payoff for them," glowed Scott. "You're an intelligent man, Arch, and they've even got you fooled."

The Kapchiks had gotten out of Pacifica and well out into the Diablos. They were on a two-lane mountain road, well above the floor of a valley filled mostly with scrub. The Sun was just dropping into the peaks behind them. The same Moon and comet that lit the night sky over Rhode Island floated in daylight directly overhead. They'd been driving in heavy traffic since leaving San Francisco, carefully keeping both vehicles together. But they were high up now, certainly safe from any deluge, and they were looking for a place to turn off when they came across a cluster of tourist shops. A rusting sign proclaimed the area to be the Jenkins Point Shopping Center. There was a charge station, a Mexican restaurant, and a souvenir store. Although they'd been traveling several hours, Jerry's solar units had replenished the power and he was still carrying almost a full charge.

The electric cars of the Twenties were far more economical than their gas-fueled alternatives. They didn't have the acceleration most drivers would have preferred, and they needed to be plugged periodically into rechargers when operated at night or in gray weather. Recharging was the major drawback of the system because it took a half hour, and might be required every five hours or so when conditions weren't right. But in sunlight they could run almost indefinitely.

The Jenkins Point Shopping Center was located on an overlook on the western rim of the San Joaquin Valley. "Why don't we stay here tonight, hon?" Jerry suggested.

It was as good a spot as they were likely to find, snuggled against the face of the mountain. Other people had apparently had the same idea. Roughly forty cars were parked in a secondary lot on the south side of the road, across from the shops. Where there was still plenty of room.

Jerry turned off the highway. He found a space where they could put both vehicles side-by-side against an ancient plank fence. Beyond the fence, the mountainside rose almost sheer for two hundred feet. The kids asked if they could go to the top, but lost interest when Marisa pointed out there was no way to get there. They agreed to substitute the restaurant, called Pablo's.