Moonfall

7.

"This is Sidney Cain reporting from London." (His voice sounds unsteady.) "You're looking at the old financial district from a point close to where Waterloo Bridge used to be. Eyewitnesses say the crest of the wave was higher than Charing Cross Station. The downtown area is currently under about ten feet of water. Casualties are believed to number upward of a hundred thousand. And that may be a very conservative estimate. Emergency teams have begun to arrive, but they are going to have a very difficult time.

"Many-" (Voice breaks momentarily.) "Many of the landmarks have been destroyed. St. Paul's, as you can see, has collapsed. The roof is gone from the House of Parliament. The bridges are all down. Nelson seems to have survived. And Cleopatra's Needle. But not much else." (Another pause.) "Boats and supplies are already coming in from all over the British Isles. We've heard reports of a French flotilla en route across the Channel." (Struggles to say more. Gives up.) "Back to you, Clyde." Micro Flight Deck. 3:22 A.M.

Evelyn had insisted on staying with her. Saber had been too numb to object. They'd sat silently for a time and then begun to talk. About how she felt, and later about Tony, and Saber's ambitions, and finally about life support.

There was still a lot of rock out there. Saber reacted automatically to the occasional warnings on the scopes, shutting down the engine when necessary, changing the angle of propulsion, doing a creditably good job of steering clear of hazards. Of course, it was getting easier. The outer edge of the blast had blown past them so quickly that it had been sheer luck they'd survived. Now the debris was moving far more slowly relative to the bus. The result was that a human pilot could hope to react in a timely fashion.

Whenever she had to accelerate, Tony's body fell aft, out of sight, but after they'd been running without thrust for a while he'd drift back, as if he were trying to stay close to the flight deck. To her.

It was eerie, and she was grateful for Evelyn's presence.

Tony's death was hard to accept. He'd been endlessly competent, the man who believed he could do anything. A wasteland had opened inside her. She had not realized until she'd seen him out there, trailing at the end of the tether, how much she needed his support.

Now she was left in a bus with its life support shut off, no hope of rescue, and no way to repair the damage. There was one piece of good news: She had her communications back with Skyport. She'd described her situation, described it a second time for a supervisor.

They insisted she check the flight deck storage cabinets on the possibility there'd be an extra suit. When there was none, they told her they would stay with her and that their best people were working on a solution. She knew what that meant.

"No chance of a rescue mission?" asked Evelyn.

She shook her head. "No way anybody can reach us in time to do any good. Fact is, they'd be hard-pressed to get to us before we achieve Earth-orbit."

"When'll that be?"

"About twelve hours."

"We'll be breathing vacuum long before then," Evelyn said. "We need an idea."

Saber had never stopped trying to devise one. And she kept coming back to the moment when Tony had looked through the puncture into C deck and seen one of Bigfoot's plastic bags. "We might have a long shot," she said. Micro Passenger Cabin. 3:29 A.M.

The mood in the passenger cabin had become bleak. There had been talk of trying to go below without a p-suit, of using one of the air tanks and just gutting it out, of ripping off the hatch and recovering a suit from the lower deck and getting back with it. How long would all that take?

Five minutes? Ten? Surely, one of them could stand anything for five minutes.

Depends how long it takes to get the hatch open.

And there was the roadblock: getting past the hatch. But they really didn't have much choice except to try it. Either try it, or just get ready to open the airlock in a little while and accept death gracefully.

Charlie was easily the most physically endowed of the persons on board, so he agreed to try, thinking that if no solution was possible he'd just as soon get it over. The happy camaraderie of the dinner party now seemed light-years away.

So it happened that when Evelyn and Saber climbed down the ladder from the flight deck, they found Charlie, with his oxygen tank shoved into his belt, standing at the airlock.

"You have the right idea," said Saber. She was carrying a rumpled gray jumpsuit. "But you'll freeze pretty quick."

"It's better than just sitting here."

"I think you'll also be holding your breath. I doubt you could breathe, even with the mask."

"Who's driving the bus?" asked Charlie.

"I guess we're taking our chances now," Evelyn said. "We have a more immediate problem." She looked at Charlie. "But we do need you to go. We talked about it, and Saber wanted to try it, but there's the problem of getting through the hatch."

Charlie surveyed the other males. They were both on the frail side. Two women, and good old Charlie Haskell at six-four. "So we need a little muscle." Ordinarily, Charlie would have made a joke of it, but neither the smile nor the tone would come.

"That's right," said Saber. "We just have to get you some better equipment. But first, let me show you where the spare suit is." She drew a map of C deck, and marked off the middle of three storage cabinets. "Just pull the latch and it'll open. It comes in two pieces: the suit and the helmet. Don't forget the helmet, right?"

Charlie frowned, feeling insulted.

"Charlie," said Evelyn, "Things are going to fog up on you out there. Both your vision and your brain. It's not going to be a milk run."

"Why don't I try getting into the p-suit down there instead of bringing it back?"

"Too complicated and too dangerous," said Evelyn. "Let's keep it simple. Just bring it back."

"Okay, now let's try to give ourselves a chance," said Saber. She reached up, punched the overhead, and shook out one of the two remaining oxygen tanks.

"I've already got one," said Charlie.

"You've got a used one. Everything we have is running on this, Mr. Vice President. Let's get you a fresh tank."

Charlie decided he liked her. She was under more pressure than anybody, she'd just lost her captain, but she was keeping her composure. Tough woman. "Okay," he said.

"The stored suit should be all right. But there's a chance that whatever tore up the compartment also got the suit. If it did, you'll have to try to strip the one Bigfoot's wearing."

"That doesn't sound easy."

"It won't be."

"Better idea," said Evelyn. "If the suit's damaged, forget it. It'll probably be easier just to repair the oxygen line than try to get the suit off Bigfoot."

"That makes sense," said Saber. She handed him a roll of duct tape. "Take it with you."

"Duct tape? I'm going to fix the leak with duct tape?"

"Best thing we've got. Anyway, Mr. Vice President, if it's more complicated than that, we're dead." She held out the gray suit, which wasn't exactly a jumpsuit but rather a top and a pair of leggings. Apparently made of Spandex. She measured them against him, adjusted them, and tried again. "This is going to be tight, but maybe that's just as well."

"What is it?" asked Charlie.

"It's a g-suit. It's mine, and it hasn't been washed and I apologize. It's underwear for a p-suit." She must have seen something in his face. "I'm serious," she said. "Look, air and temperature aren't the only problems. Your capillaries are going to burst. They'll go pretty quickly after you get outside. As that happens, you'll develop massive bruising. Enough of that and you're dead."

"How long's it take?"

"Don't know. I didn't pay enough attention because I never expected to go out without a suit. Or to send anyone else out. But not long, okay? The g-suit helps keep blood from pooling in the extremities under high g-forces. It also acts as a coolant. Which you're going to need."

Charlie looked at them doubtfully.

"Do it," said Evelyn.

"Not much respect here for the vice president," he told her. But he retreated to the washroom, climbed into the suit, and zippered up. It was tight. He pulled his clothes back on and returned to the cabin.

Evelyn inspected it. "Not much of a space suit," she said. There were no gloves, so the chaplain contributed a flannel shirt, which they tore up and taped to his hands. Saber produced a uniform jacket, cut it into strips, wrapped them around Charlie's feet, and secured them with tape.

She heard warning beeps from the flight deck and sent them all back to their seats while she hurried back up the ladder. Charlie sat down and buckled in. The engine roared to life and Saber moved them to a new course. Then she came back, carrying a wrench, a torch, and a pair of screwdrivers, which she set down beside the duct tape.

She looked at him and smiled. "Just the g-suit," she said. "You won't need your clothes."

"They'll help me keep warm," he protested.

"Keeping warm won't be a problem, Mr. Vice President. Take my word." Charlie, embarrassed, stripped off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. Neither he nor Saber wore their oxygen masks during the preparations for the EVA, and the deadness of the air in the cabin spurred him on.

Saber ran her hands over the Spandex and approved. "We need some more parts," she said. She went into the galley and rummaged around in the cabinets and refrigerator. She came back with a straw and a plastic storage bag.

Charlie watched curiously as she emptied the bag of several pounds of wrapped lunch meat, held it over his head, and pulled it down. "A little snug," she said, "but it should work."

Evelyn's eyes lit up. "Saber," she said, seizing the duct tape, "you're a genius."

"What?" asked Charlie.

They removed the bag and strapped the air tank to his back.

"Okay." Saber nodded at her handiwork. "Look out for the sunlight. You won't have adequate protection against it, and you'll get a bad burn real quick if you get exposed. I'll try to keep the bus turned away from it. But keep it in mind.

"You're going to be wrapped up with a bag over your head. That means you're going to feel constricted. Keep calm. Breathing will probably feel strange. Not inhaling. That'll be easy. But I think you'll have to work at it to exhale.

"The g-suit won't cool you off because it's supposed to plug into the p-suit. So you'll get warm. That's another reason we want to keep you out of the sun. You're going to feel as if you're in a sauna."

"Go ahead," Charlie said. "I'm taking notes."

"I'm sorry. I wish it were easier. Somebody make a bandanna and wrap it around his head." She went on to explain, step by step, what he needed to do.

"One more thing," she said. "We don't have an extra tether. Before you do anything else, haul Tony in, disconnect his tether, and tie it to your belt. Tight. If we have to move the bus, I'll blink the outside lights twice, count to five, and go. You make sure you've got a good hold, okay? The tether won't save you from getting beaten up, or even popping the bag. And for God's sake, make sure you stay connected to the bus so we don't lose you."

They put the bag back on. Evelyn was about to tape it down when Saber held up a finger. "Not yet," she said.

"Why not?"

"He's got to exhale. There's no way for the air to escape. He'll fog up." She produced a straw.

"But," said Evelyn, "the air'll drain through that."

"Right. So we need a stopcock. Anybody got a paper clip?"

"Here," said the chaplain.

She took it, clipped it over one end of the straw, examined it, and then secured it with tape. Now she taped the straw, clipped side down, to Charlie's g-suit top so that the upper end would be inside the plastic bag. "If you have to, Charlie," she said, "open the clip when you exhale." She bit her lip. "It'll help to bleed a little of the air out through the straw, but do that very slowly. If the pressure drops too fast, you'll get a nosebleed."

Her eyes grew dark. "I think you're set now. And I'm sorry. I don't like doing this to you."

He nodded and smiled.

Evelyn wrapped a utility belt around his middle, handed him his tools, and strapped his lamp on his wrist.

They wished him luck.

And Charlie, his mouth dry and his stomach churning, went into the airlock and pulled the door shut. The activating presspad was white. He pushed it, saw the status displays change color, and simply sagged, already feeling clammy. His breathing was loud inside the bag and he checked the straw to be sure the clip was still in place.

The cycling procedure seemed slow. Charlie sat listening to his heartbeat. Saber had been right: Breathing quickly became a conscious effort.

A green light blinked on and the outer hatch swung open. He looked out into the void, expecting, despite what Saber had said, to be hit by a frigid wave. But he observed no immediate change in temperature. His nervousness ebbed and he looked out at the universe with a surprising degree of calm. No one gets to be vice president without developing a strong sense of self-confidence along the way, and a capability for responding under extreme pressure. These qualities, of which Charlie had not been particularly conscious, were nevertheless present, and they now came to his rescue.

He looked around and saw Tony's body, still quietly adrift.

Hauling him in would take time. And Charlie knew better than anyone, feeling the air in his lungs expand, that time was not on his side. Better to take his chances without the safety line and get on with it. Get Tony later. There was no safety to be had under present conditions, and it seemed the height of imprudence to risk himself pursuing it. He exhaled, heard the bag crackle, and leaned out of the airlock.

There was a handhold immediately to his left. He looked for more, and saw them spaced evenly at about two-foot intervals in both directions, up toward the blister and down toward the cargo deck.

It was an odd sensation, looking out and feeling no movement, knowing they were not anchored, seeing nothing below but void. He pushed the thought aside, seized the handgrip, and swung himself onto the face of the hull. He'd never liked heights, but this wasn't at all the same. The experience was easier than he'd anticipated, and he moved almost casually down the ladder. It occurred to him that he hadn't been very hopeful, walking into the airlock with his plastic bag, his straw, and his paper clip. But now his confidence soared.

Which reminded him: He'd stopped breathing. He exhaled, and his lungs refilled with no effort on his part.

Exhale.

He was warm. Getting warmer.

He kept moving. The broken tread came into view, and he could see the engine nozzle and the cargo deck hatch, which looked as if it had been jimmied partway open. He got to it quickly, tested the handle, pulled on it, and found no give.

But there was room for his fingers between the lip of the hatch and the seating. He shifted position, let go of the handgrip, got hold of the underside of the hatch with both hands, planted his feet against the hull, and pulled.

Nothing.

He tried again with the wrench and felt movement.

Okay. Progress.

He went after it, straining until sinews cracked. Sweat drenched the lining of the g-suit. A vapor formed across the inside of the bag and he had to stop. What had Evelyn said? Both vision and brain would fog? Maybe. But after this, he'd be the reigning authority on the subject.

He loosened the paper clip. Pressure forced air out through the straw.

The bag cleared.

He was about to begin again when a bank of lights, some spaced along the middle of the sphere, others near the treads, blinked on. They went off and came on again.

Count to five and start the engine.

Son of a bitch. He swung back to his handholds and grabbed for dear life.

He wasn't watching the nozzle, but he saw the glare from ignition on the metal in front of his face. In the same instant, the sudden acceleration threw him hard against the hull and tried to tear his arm out of his shoulder. Suddenly there was a down, very distinctly, and he dangled on the outside of the Micro, over an infinite precipice.

He clung to the handhold. Agony lanced through fingers and shoulders. He tried to cut a deal with whatever power governed the universe.

The grips had depressions, and he tried to find one with his foot so he could stand. Relieve some of the pressure. Don't forget to exhale. His wrench began to slide out of his belt.

He found a foothold, let go briefly with one hand, and repositioned the wrench.

Then the burn stopped and he was afloat again.

He didn't know whether it was over. They hadn't thought to make an all-clear signal, so he hung on, waiting. His legs drifted away from the hull.

He had to force himself to let go with one hand. He rubbed his shoulder and then, cautiously, let go with the other and repositioned himself over the hatch. He watched the lights the whole time.

They did not come on.

Exhale.

He waited for feeling to return to his arms, and then inserted the wrench under the hatch and pulled on it. If he'd worked feverishly before, he now applied himself with desperation. He felt springs pop and the wrench slipped and he banged his hand, but he ignored it and continued to work.

The hatch gave. And broke loose. Micro Flight Deck. 3:41 A.M.

The voice snarled at her. "He's where?"

"Outside."

"Outside the ship?"

"That is affirmative."

"For God's sake-who am I talking to?"

"The pilot."

"What's your name, pilot?"

"Rolnikaya."

"Okay, Rolnikaya. I'll tell you what you're going to do. You get the vice president back inside. Now. Tell him Mr. Kerr wants to talk with him."

"At the moment he's busy, Mr. Kerr. I'll tell him when he comes in." She broke the connection.