Skyfall

19

GET 05:32

Flax was washing down his Maalox with black coffee and it was not doing him any good at all. His gut rumbled continually and sent out sudden gusts of flame like a volcano about to blow up. Not only that but the coffee was going right to his bladder and he forgot the last time he had been to the John so he felt as if he had a full basketball down there. But he couldn't leave the console now.

“Listen, Patrick, we need this.” He was pleading and he knew it. “You were out of contact for almost forty minutes there, it was only the readouts from the bio-sensors that let us even know you were there at all. And when Kuznekov cut his umbilicals I'll tell you things were hairy down here. And you haven't had the TV cameras broadcasting more than a total of fifteen minutes the entire flight.”

“We have had some problems, Mission Control.”

“I know that — and I'm not making light of them in any way. But the situation here, without going into many details, demands your aid. We need that broadcast, Patrick — desperately.”

“I read you, Flax, and I'm getting agreement here. Before we repressurize the flight deck I'll give you a shot out of the hatch. Stand by, Mission Control.”

Flax sighed and leaned back, hooking his thumbs inside the front of his belt and pulling outward, relieving some of the pressure on his bladder. He took a sip of coffee. He could see the display below him on the TV monitor console, a breaking up signal and picture that quickly was put under control. He switched the picture to his own TV screen and switched his phone through to the network liaison console.

“We have a picture, Bob, what's your status?”

“All networks vamping and ready to take our broadcast.”

“Tell them to stand by. Sixty seconds.”

A light blinked on his board and he flipped the switch beside it; the voice sounded in his earphone. “Mr. Flax, I have Mr. Dillwater on the line for you…”

“He'll have to hold.”

“But…”

“You heard me. I'll get back to him as soon as this broadcast from Prometheus is over. I'm sure he will understand that.” He switched off the voice before there could be any response, and nodded approval as the picture on his screen steadied and the hatch loomed large, then vanished and the Earth, as seen from space, appeared on the screen.

“We're receiving a perfect picture, Patrick. Just hold it there please. The networks are standing by, are you ready to go?”

“Roger.”

“Give them the signal,” he ordered, and saw himself, small on the screen, from the network camera to the rear of Mission Control.

“Switching over now to the camera on Prometheus. There, you can see it now, the Earth from the open hatch. Major Winter is holding the camera and is moving it now. Over to you, Prometheus.”

“That's Earth as we see it, plenty of cloud. We are now ending our third orbit and, I don't know if you can make it out through the cloud, but we are going over the Pacific with Peru just coming up, the air is clear there. I'm going to move the camera.. just a moment.. there, you can see the detached core body. It's in orbit behind us at a bearing of about fifteen degrees.”

Flax pressed one of the buttons on his console. “Kill the sound to the networks, but keep the picture. Tell them it's a technical difficulty.” He switched back to Prometheus. “Hello, Prometheus. A good picture, great commentary,

Patrick. What I'm saying now is not going out to the networks. Do you see that spot of light just to the left of the booster?”

“Affirmative.”

“Is it…?”

“Yes, it's Colonel Kuznekov. He's also following us in orbit. And before you ask — the answer is no. I'm not going to zoom in on his corpse or anything like that.”

“Just a report, that's all I ask.”

“You've had that already. I'm going to give you about one minute more of this then close the hatch and pressurize. We have work to do.”

“Going live again,” he sighed and gave the signal.

“The core body will gradually drop behind us in this orbit until it is brought back to Earth for a soft landing. In the cabin now, I'll hand the camera to Major Kalinina while I close this hatch. Once we're pressurized we can begin preparations for orbital firing.”

The picture jumped around as the camera was passed over. Flax groaned to himself and wondered if his bladder really would burst. A light flickered on and he threw the switch.

“Mr. Dillwater insists on talking with you, Mr. Flax.”

“A few moments more.”

“He's not waiting. He's gone into Mission Control.”

“Damn!” Flax disconnected and turned his chair about. There he was all right, the dark figure just entering the upper tier. It had to be him, the only man in Texas in the summer who wore a dark suit — with a vest. Striding steadily, right up to the console.

“Mr. Flax, your presence is required in the press conference chamber.”

“Mr. Dillwater, I wish I could, but as I told you on the phone I can't leave this position now. The atomic engine…”

“Your assistant controller will take over. I have flown to Houston from Washington for this conference which I could have done just as well from there. The venue is here for your benefit. I realize your worth, Mr. Flax, and commend your attention to duty. But if you do not come with me now your assistant will take over and you will be relieved of your duties and will no longer be an employee of NASA. Do I make myself clear?”

Flax, for the first time in his life, could think of nothing to say. The seconds ticked by dumbly and he realized that there was nothing he could really argue about. Realistically, he could take a break now as the flight cabin was repressurized and they removed their suits, he had the time. “Spendlove, take over,” he said, then took off his headset and threw it onto the console before him. “I'll come with you, Mr. Dill-water. Only I have to go to the bathroom first.”

He heaved himself erect and thought his bladder would explode now with the pressure on it. He tried not to waddle when he walked. The men's room sign looked before him like the gates of heaven and he fell against it and pushed it open.

Dillwater was waiting when he came out — were his eyebrows elevated ever so slightly? Maybe they were, he must have set the world's peeing record, but did not feel he could explain this to Dillwater. They went to the elevator.

“Can you brief me?” Flax asked.

“It is simple enough. A New York paper broke a story a few hours ago, this morning New York time. Since then all of the media have picked it up, all over the world, and it's snowballing. Have you heard about it?”

“Just a couple of words, someone told me who was watching TV. A crackpot idea about Prometheus turning into an atom bomb. Insane!”

“I am glad you feel that way, Mr. Flax, but please save your arguments and indignation for the press. As soon as he heard the first reports President Bandin sent me here to arrange a conference to destroy these rumors before they spread. I have just spent a very uncomfortable time in a supersonic Air Force plane, so you must excuse me if my temper is short.”

“Who's here? What kind of coverage?”

“Everything and everyone. All the media. We must be on our toes and I look upon you for aid in every way.”

Flax was scared. He did not like big crowds nor did he enjoy being cross-examined by suspicious journalists. When backed into a corner he tended to squeak like a rat, which everyone enjoyed but which sapped his morale. He wished he could have a drink before he went on. There was the bar in “the office behind the conference hall. But what would Dillwater think? The hell with what he thought.

“I'm going into Jack's office for a moment,” he said turning the knob. Dillwater's eyebrows arched up.

“Whatever on earth for?”

“For a drink, if you must know.”

The eyebrows slowly dropped and a suspicion of a smile touched the corners of the rigid mouth.

“I will join you.”

Dillwater had a small dry sherry while Flax poured a half glass of whiskey, diluted it with water, then drank it straight down. “My God,” he said, striking himself lightly on the protruding stomach with the thumb of his closed fist. “That is going to cure or kill me.” He belched cavernously and shuddered. Dillwater finished his last sip of sherry, tapped his lips with his handkerchief, and waved to the door. “Into the lion's den, if you please, Mr. Flax. I'm afraid we have no choice.”

They came in by the side entrance and were unnoticed for a few seconds. Minford, the PR man, was behind the podium and fielding the questions. If his sweat-drenched face was any indication, he had not been having an easy time. Heads turned, one by one, as they crossed the front of the hall and the cameras began to click. Minford had the expression of a man just saved from the lion pit as they came forward.

“Now if you would please hold those questions for a moment or two you will be able to ask the people who are completely in the picture. Mr. Simon Dillwater you all know. He has just jetted down here from Washington to give you a full report. With him is Dr. Flax who has been in the hot spot at Mission Control ever since takeoff, and has been in contact with the astronauts all of that time. Will you please address your questions to them….”

Hands, pencils and pads were being waved; there were hoarse shouts for attention. Minford looked them over quickly, and pointed to the Science Editor of the LA Times. They had worked together for years and he might just be a little more sympathetic.

“Dr. Flax, just what is the situation in space at this moment?”

Flax relaxed, ever so slightly, no trouble here. “Separation has been achieved as you know. At the present time the crew is repressurizing the flight cabin so they can work in shirtsleeve environment again. The program now calls for the check-out of the nuclear engine in the lower compartment, the engine which will now be fired to lift Prometheus to its final orbit….” Hands were waving again and Minford stabbed his finger at the nearest.

“What about the core body, the last booster still there in orbit? If it fell couldn't it cause immense destruction? As much as an atomic bomb?” They were silent now, waiting for his answer. Flax spoke slowly, counting off the major points on his fingers.

“Firstly, nothing can 'fall' from orbit, despite what you might have heard. This last booster, like the previous five, will be inserted into a proper descent orbit and soft-landed just as the others were. Secondly, if anything were to go wrong, though this is unimaginable, the worst that would happen would be the destruction of the booster by combustion in the atmosphere…,”

“If a malfunction is unimaginable,” a voice called out loudly, “what do you call the failure of the core body engines and the failure to separate?”

Flax was beginning to sweat heavily. “Perhaps I chose the wrong term. We can imagine an uncontrolled landing, in which case the booster would burn up.”

“It couldn't hit a city, explode?”

“Impossible. Thousands of rockets have been launched, all of them with disposable stages. All of these have burnt up on re-entry and none have ever caused the slightest damage.”

One man had been calling for attention since the interview had begun and Minford could ignore him no longer. “Mr. Redditch,” he said.

The Newsweek correspondent was one of the senior men present, well known to all the reporters. They quieted, waiting for his questions, knowing he could speak for most of them.

“I appreciate your arguments, Dr. Flax,” Redditch said. “But aren't you referring to far smaller boosters than this one?”

“Possibly. But the scale isn't that great.”

“Isn't it?” There was frank unbelief in Redditch's voice. “This type of booster is bigger than any other, and Prometheus is many times bigger than the booster. Is that not correct?”

“Yes, but…”

“So forget the booster for the moment. What would happen if Prometheus itself slammed back to the Earth? Wouldn't it make one hell of a hole in the ground?”

“But Prometheus is not going to return to Earth.” Flax could feel the sweat trickling down inside his shirt. “It's already in orbit and will soon be firing its engine and going into higher orbit.”

“Isn't it in now what is called a decaying orbit? Is it not true that if the engine does not fire soon that the entire satellite itself could plummet back to Earth after contact with the atmosphere? Is it not true that this decaying orbit will not last more than eighteen hours more?”

Flax did not know what to say. Where had he gotten those figures? Someone had talked — they were NASA's own figures. What the hell could be done?

Dillwater saved his bacon. Cool and calm as always he coughed into the microphone and nodded in Redditch's direction.

“There has been too much loose talk today,” he said. “Unfounded speculation by a certain irresponsible minority. You gentlemen of the press are absolutely correct in your attitude, in your questions. You have heard these speculations and you wish to know about them. To determine the truth, if there is any truth, to lay to rest rootless and absurd speculations, dangerous speculation I might say, if that be the case. You are not gossip mongers, but representatives of a free press dedicated to telling the truth---”

“Well, could we have some?” Redditch said, unimpressed. “My question still stands. If, at the end of the sixteen-hour period, Prometheus hits the atmosphere — what is going to happen?”

“Nothing. Because Prometheus is not going to do that. As we are talking here the fusion engine is being tested and will soon be building up thrust. There have been difficulties and they have been surmounted. We are on our way.”

Oh, baby, you had better be right, Flax thought. You had better be very, very right. His fingers crept out, unseen by the newsmen, to the back of the podium, where he knocked, ever so lightly, on wood.