Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

It was six minutes away, approaching at 10.7 kilometers per second. Tory was relaying everything she had to her consumers, one of whom, she'd been informed, was the new president of the United States. "He's personally interested," the NASA higher-ups had told her with great solemnity.

Damned well he should be. She hoped he'd be smart enough to get the point.

A klaxon went off somewhere, signaling another penetration of the space station. Windy's eyes met hers. The prospect that a rock might rip through the bulkhead at any time tended to be distracting. She tried to push the thought into a corner of her mind and refocus on the Possum.

It was coming in over the western Pacific, where it would enter the atmosphere at an acute angle. The NASA Goddard Flying Observatory, positioned over the East China Sea, was sending them test pictures of clear, star-filled skies.

Ordinarily, the networks would have given the event extensive coverage, but on this Sunday morning it was all but preempted by the reports of continuing calamity from around the world. The scene of immediate disaster had moved well into the Pacific now, as Earth turned on its axis. Rock rained from the skies along Asian coasts, destroying Tokyo, and damaging Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Singapore.

Tory was tied into Feinberg's private channel on the AstroLab circuit. But the astrophysicist was off the line now. The BBC had interviewed him about an hour ago. The Possum would come very close, he said, but he assured the viewers it would miss.

Others were less certain. The Chinese had already announced their intention to register a complaint that their American allies were waiting until after it passed before using their missiles. They hinted darkly that the Americans secretly hoped it would fall on China. The secretary of state, in a predawn press conference, commented that he wasn't concerned, that if the Possum merely put on a fireworks display and continued on its way, as expected, the Chinese would have nothing to complain about; and that if it did hit China, and the scientists were correct that it was big enough to end civilization, then there'd be nobody around to listen to the complaint. He smiled at his remark.

A timer was keeping track: Two minutes to atmospheric contact. Three minutes to closest approach.

The station klaxons had stopped wailing. A voice over the intercom informed Tory that sections of D deck, the main promenade, had lost pressure and were temporarily closed.

A news bulletin appeared on the screen: the Americans were canceling the missile strike. No explanation given. Press conference at ten o'clock.

One minute.

The Possum was by no means the only big object out there. At last count, sixty-two others had been designated and tagged. But none constituted an immediate threat. The biggest, POSIM-55, was a true extinction rock. It was four times the size of the Possum. Enough to finish everyone except maybe the cockroaches. Fortunately, it was going into a relatively stable orbit. In fact, she thought, despite the terrible losses, we've been lucky. It could have been far worse. And the rain of ejecta had noticeably eased during the last couple of hours.

"There's still a lot of debris out there," said Windy. "When this is over we should recommend the airlines stay on the ground a few more days."

Ten seconds.

It was moving in quickly now, skimming across the face of the planet, the Pacific far below, the Asian mainland coming up fast. The virtual imager tracked it into the blue-black haze of the ionosphere. As she watched, the Possum began to redden, pieces fell away, and wisps of smoke formed contrails.

The screens dedicated to the Flying Observatory had not yet picked it up. Two of the displays showed enhanced telescopic images; the third was a naked-eye view. She watched intently and then saw it, a sharp white line drawn through the shimmering blue haze. Its closest approach to the surface would be at two hundred kilometers.

Other imagers on the ground tracked it. A CNN reporter, standing with a camera team on a hillside near Hainan, caught it as it burst into flame. People standing with him gaped and sighed. The long fireball streaked across their sky. Then the roar of its passage broke on them, deep and guttural. It took the witnesses by surprise and they covered their heads. A few shrieked and threw themselves to the ground.

It rumbled among the constellations, a celestial locomotive with the boiler ripped open and its fiery insides exposed. And then it disappeared in the west, toward Wuhan.

"Looks good so far," said Windy, his voice tense.

Mobile stations at Chengtu and in the Himalayas caught it as it began to dwindle. At Lahore, it became quieter, more sedate, and seemed smaller. The roar was gone. The Afghans saw only a long pink line in the sky, and somewhere over the land of the Mullah, it winked out.

Tory had a link open to the AstroLab and she heard their applause. "Bye-bye, baby," said a delighted female voice. AstroLab. 8:58 A.M.

Feinberg was constitutionally unable to celebrate. He was by nature reticent, reserved, reclusive. For him, the local Wal-Mart was more remote than Cygnus X-l. Years before, Feinberg had had the good fortune to be at Palomar when Supernova 2017A exploded in the Lagoon Nebula, NGC6523. The Lagoon is in Sagittarius, less than five thousand light-years away. It had been so far the astrophysical event of the century. But while his colleagues celebrated, Feinberg had been forced to pretend. He understood his own personality well enough; he knew that he'd never learned to enjoy himself. Even this morning, when (at least in his own mind) he'd intervened to save the president from a potentially disastrous decision, it would not have been his nature to take several of his colleagues out for a round of eggs and pancakes, and relish the moment.

Instead, when the dust settled, he simply went home.

He'd been up for the better part of five consecutive days, and he was exhausted. The sky was finally growing clear, and he didn't see that he could do any more. Cynthia Murray, his number two, would track the Possum, and when she knew what it was going to do, she'd call him.

Outside, the trees were full of birds and it was as if nothing had happened.

In Atlanta with Judy Almayer, New York Times; Fred Chiles, Boston Globe; Karl Nishamura, Los Angeles Online; and moderator Pierce Benjamin, NBC News; with special guest Julian Moore, director of the Minority Alliance. NBC: Dr. Moore, your organization issued a demand an hour ago calling for the dissolution of the presidency and its replacement by a rotating executive council, subject to a parliamentary system providing quick recall. Moore: That's correct. And it isn't a position we've adopted lightly. NBC: What precisely do you propose? That we junk the Constitution? Moore: It's a rich man's constitution, Mr. Benjamin. Devised by the rich, for the rich. N. Y. Times: But wouldn't that be shooting yourself in the hot? After all, if you eliminate the Constitution, what's left to protect ordinary people? The people you claim to represent? Moore: The Constitution, I'm sorry to say, has always been an instrument of evasion. People who've been oppressed have to get on their feet and demand their rights. Boston Globe: But doesn't the Constitution provide the only real protection for those rights? To what other human document would you appeal? Moore: Maybe we need to write one. I'd remind you, Mr. Chiles, that the Constitution coexisted quite happily with slavery. Until the slaves just decided they weren't going to take it any more. L.A. Online: But the Constitution was the lever with which Lincoln worked. Moore: That's standard schoolboy history. The Union Army was the lever, and the spine of the Union Army, after 1863, was its black troops. NBC: Hold on a minute. Let's not wander off into a side street. Dr. Moore, if you abolished the present government, with what would you replace it? Moore: To begin with, we need an executive council that would be representative of all the people, not just the white majority. L.A. Online: But President Kolladner was an African-American. Surely- Moore: And he objected to the term. He didn't approve of hyphens, you remember. He claimed to be simply an American. The truth is, he was a lackey. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but he was ashamed of his heritage. He was a classic Uncle Tom. N. Y. Times: Dr. Moore, the Minority Alliance has always been a reasonably conservative group in the past. You've been reasonably conservative. Tell us why the change in course. Moore: The poor people of this nation were left to die last night. When that happened, revolution became as inevitable as the sunrise. N. Y. Times: But there's no evidence it was deliberate. People of all socioeconomic groups died in large numbers last night. LA. Online: You're obviously dissatisfied with Kolladner. Who do you think could have done better? Moore: I can think of no one who could have done worse. Moreover, when white America goes looking for a scapegoat, they won't forget that Henry Kolladner was a black man. Look, God only knows how many people have died during the last twelve hours. Are still dying. Millions. Mr. Nishamura, you don't even have a city to go back to. LA Online: Nobody could have done anything to save the city. The waves killed LA. Period. Where would you have put the Los Angeles population with a few days' notice? Moore: I damned well wouldn't have left them at Gage Avenue and Avalon to be drowned. Listen: When we're finished counting our dead, we're going to discover there are upward of twenty million of them. Most will be people from the inner cities. Once again, the black man pays the bill for this country. Well, this is it. No more. NBC: You don't really expect the Congress to cave in to this demand, do you? Moore: They will if they want to save the nation. NBC: That sounds like an ultimatum. Moore: It's not, Mr. Pierce. It's a strong suggestion. The Alliance does not want to bring down the country. We really don't. But the survival of this nation is essential to our finding a way to lead people, especially black people, out of poverty. What we are saying to the Congress, and to the new president, is this: The old system doesn't work for us. It's time for radical surgery. I hope they'll see the wisdom of our suggestion. If not, then I have no doubt blood will run in the streets. Boston Globe: Dr. Moore, you must realize you're inciting rebellion. Moore: No such thing. I'm hoping to head it off.