Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

It had taken a while for the country to get the point. But it had. Neither Lincoln nor Washington would have had a chance of election during the age of mass communications. And maybe that was just as well. Rick knew that neither would have taken his advice. SSTO Arlington Fight Deck, 23,000 kilometers from Luna. 10:43 P.M.

George would have traded his soul for his old A-77 Blackjack. The space plane simply hauled too much mass, was too sluggish and too big a target.

He'd also discovered a disconcerting illusion. As an essentially earthbound pilot, he was accustomed to a sense of motion in flight: clouds whispering past, Skyport drawing near, Reagan falling away. Out here the environment, even the comet, had been frozen. Nothing ever moved.

Except for the explosive front that had ripped through and tried to tear the plane out of his hands. The tail assembly had been demolished and a rock had punched through one of the overhead compartments. He knew there was hull damage, but not how much. And there was still stuff coming at him. The pieces tended to be bigger than the dust storms and flying rocks in the first wave, but they weren't moving quite as fast now, so he had a better chance of getting out of their way.

He got on the circuit and told his passengers he knew the ride had been rough, but he assured them they would be all right. Micro Passenger Cabin. 10:44 P.M.

The cabin was quiet. Morley's earlier monosyllabic burble had irritated Charlie, but now he missed it. It had been their last link with the mundane. With the lights gone and the surreal outside world trying to break through the windows, the mundane would have looked pretty good.

Fear was endemic. The vehicle continued to lurch wildly, and the sounds of stress in the bulkheads were all too threatening. Charlie sensed that no one expected to come out of this alive, and there was almost a wish that it should end. Get it over with.

But gradually the motions of the Micro became less severe, and there were extended stretches of relatively unagitated flight.

"Maybe we're through the worst of it," said Morley, seated behind him. They were separated, one in each pair of seats. To gain maximum balance, Tony had said. Charlie understood now why he'd wanted every advantage he could get.

"I hope so," Charlie said. Two emergency lamps were on, casting just enough of a pale glow to make out silhouettes. "You okay, Evelyn?"

"Fine." Her voice sounded odd.

He couldn't see her. She was behind him on the other side of the aisle.

The chaplain announced he was okay just as the Micro pitched forward and rolled. Charlie's harness grabbed at his shoulder. His stomach squeezed down into a dark wet place as the craft kept turning, and he gripped the sides of the chair. A shadow fell across his window and he looked out, saw only darkness crosshatched by fire. Morley yelped, the first indication of fear the journalist had shown. Charlie was pleased to see he was human. It was annoying to be caught in a desperate situation with someone who seemed unbothered by the hazards. With the microphone, Charlie thought, Morley somehow transcended events, looked in on them from outside. Now it's gone, disconnected, and he's just like the rest of us.

"Did you see that?" Morley was staring out the window and his voice was pitched an octave higher than the rich baritone with which Transglobal viewers were familiar.

"Yeah," said Charlie. He hadn't, not really. But they were cruising again and that was all he cared about. SSTO Rome Flight Deck, 146,000 kilometers from Luna. 10:45 P.M.

Verrano never saw the rock. It glided out of the random clutter on his screens and nailed the number two engine. Rome shuddered, the fuel line sealed off, and the engine shut down. The spacecraft went into a slow spin. Before he could get it under control, his copilot whispered a warning: "Big one coming."

He went throttle up with everything he had.

The thing was behind them, barreling in, and he discovered that his rear opticals were gone, so he couldn't see it. But he felt its presence, estimated its size from the radar returns at several hundred meters. A mountain.

The changing radar image suggested it was spinning.

In the passenger cabin, Rick Hailey's heart was pounding furiously. He was pressed back hard in his seat, his eyes closed, listening to the crackle of debris raining off the hull, trying to think how he could put this experience into one of Haskell's speeches. But he knew this was a critical moment, had heard the change in tone in the engines, had felt the sudden jerky turns, and knew the pilot was trying to evade something.

Several seats behind him, the TV correspondent was still talking into her microphone. Behind and on his left sat Sam Anderson and Isabel. Slade Elliott was back toward the rear of the spacecraft. Captain Pierce, skipper of the Shadow, survivor of a hundred desperate encounters.

But not this one.

The world broke open and a terrible cold seized Rick's throat. He died wondering whether Charlie Haskell would be able to pay him an appropriate tribute. Micro Flight Deck. 10:48 P.M.

"I think we're okay."

Saber cringed when he said it, knew instinctively that the remark would be unlucky. It sounded too much like an epitaph. And she was right.

The long-range scanners hadn't been worth a damn. There was simply too much free-floating junk in their rear, all of it coming too fast. The radar had settled down, was pinging more or less steadily, and then immediately after Tony's remark erupted into a cacophony of pings and bleeps.

"Son of a bitch," said Tony.

It looked like a solid wall coming up from behind. "Range two k," she said. "Closing at one-two-five." Kilometers per hour.

They had about a minute.

The wall shut off everything; it was a dark sandstorm. She could see no end to it in any direction.

Tony, knowing he couldn't outrun it, shut down the engine, rotated the clusters, and fired, changing the attitude of the bus. Then he relit, hoping to get above it, but Saber knew he wasn't going to make it. She picked up the mike: "Brace yourselves."

The SSTOs were more solidly built than the Micro, but their real advantage in this kind of situation was their capability to pile on the coal. The bus had only two speeds: one g and glide. It was the equivalent of trying to run from an avalanche in a potato sack.

Tony readjusted their angle at the last moment and cut power, turning the bus to face the storm. Keep the junk out of the engine.

It hit. Metal screeched, and a hurricane of rock and debris blasted the hull. An explosion rocked the Micro and sent it into a tumble. Klaxons sounded and red lamps blinked. Then as quickly as it had come, it was gone, leaving them spinning in its wake.

Saber needed a moment to clear her vision. When she did, Tony was trying to talk to Bigfoot over the intercom. And getting no answer.

She looked at the status board.

The cargo deck had been holed.

"My God," whispered Tony. "Was he in his suit?"

He'd still been wearing the helmet last time she'd seen him. "It might be the radio," she said.

Maybe.

A second warning blinker claimed her attention. "Losing air." Her voice tightened. "C deck again. Looks as if the line's blown." She closed it off, also effectively shutting down the oxygen supply for the rest of the vehicle.

Tony continued calling Bigfoot's name until Saber asked him to stop. "When we're reasonably clear," she said, "we'll have to go EVA." Can't wait too long. There'll be an air problem.

His gaze traveled down to her p-suit. "Where's your helmet?"

Where was it? She couldn't remember. She'd taken it off as soon as they were through the lock. Had carried it with her. She looked around the flight deck but didn't see it. They exchanged uncomfortable glances. If it was still in the cargo section, there'd be no way to make repairs.