Skyfall

9

“Start the countdown,” Samson Kletenik said.

As he spoke the numbers on the digital clock that hung high in front of Launch Control, unmoving until now, changed from 95:00 to 94:59.

At every console the thick countdown volumes were open to the first page, volumes thicker than usual because every instruction was in duplicate, Russian in one column, English in the other. Though all of the positions controlling fueling, engines, pumps and ancillary equipment were manned by Soviet technicians, and all flight deck instrumentation and computer monitoring by Americans, there was an interface that was not simply payload or booster. Here nationals of both countries were mixed, many times two of them at the same console monitoring each other's work, ready for the instant response that can be demanded during an operation. Prometheus had been in the planning stage long enough to give Berlitz and the Soviet equivalent plenty of time to drill languages into resisting heads. Theoretically all the technicians and engineers in Launch Control spoke both languages, for better or worse. Perhaps they were not the world's greatest conversationalists, but all were adept in the limited vocabulary of rocketry and control systems. They could work together. That they could do other things together had been obvious when a female Russian technician was returned home in an advanced state of pregnancy. Seven requests for Soviet-American marriages were in the file awaiting processing, which meant that decisions would be made after Prometheus was in orbit, not before. National cooperation was not to be strained.

Samson Kletenik was Launch Control. He was a tall, long-armed slab of a man, slow speaking and fast thinking, not given to smiling. Not that he had anything to smile about. All the years of effort of construction and assembly had reached their conclusion. Every part of the complex launch function was controlled from his console. His was the ultimate responsibility. As though to make matters worse he knew that every step of his operation was being monitored by Flax and the other Mission Control people, thousands of miles away in Houston. Once clear of the ground the responsibility could be handed over to them. But that was in the future. At this moment Kletenik was in charge, carefully throwing switches, speaking in slow and measured tones, appearing relaxed and calm.

In Mission Control in Houston Flax was neither of these. Relaxing was for afterwards, calmness was only in his voice when on the radio, a role to be played. As the launch approached closer and closer his tension grew greater. He watched the rushed order of Launch Control through the television hook-up, then looked around at his own technicians relaxed before their controls. Let them relax — he couldn't. He felt the hard knot growing in his gut, the knot he always got at this time, that never left him until splashdown and completion. While the astronauts would be enjoying ticker-tape rides and presidential hankshakes, he would be slipping through a side entrance of the Naval Hospital at Bethesda and into a private room. The doctors there would shake their heads over him and attempt to drag him back from the brink before his pre-ulcerous condition turned into a nice duodenal ulcer that would punch a hole right through his gut. It wasn't just the chain-smoked cigars, the endless cups of coffee and half-eaten sandwiches or the lack of sleep, it was that knot. He usually lost about fifteen pounds during that week in the hospital. The liquid diet was without interest and the pills, so that he wouldn't miss cigars, booze and coffee, had him asleep most of the time. Then when he came out it was a good month or two before he could be back to normal, able to enjoy lobster, champagne, Havana cigars and all the other things that contributed to a good life.

But right now the knot of tension was just beginning, a tiny little twist of anticipation that would soon turn into a burning ball of flame that would have him drinking Maalox by the gallon. Nothing had gone wrong yet — but something would, something always did. In a way waiting for it was harder than experiencing it. Would it be small, or too big for Launch Control to handle? It was with a feeling of relief that he heard the words, saw Launch Control spring into action.

“I don't have pressurization in helium anti-pogo system. No pressurization on four, until 31 down seven…”

“Do you want a hold?” Kletenik asked.

“Negative. At least not right now. We have ten minutes to clear it.”

“Stay with me and if I'm on something else let me know your condition in nine minutes.”

“Roger. Oh-chin ogay!”

An American A-OK in Russian, the new combined language of the space age, Flax thought, watching and listening, a silent spectator. And the Americans were saying vas ponyal, I understand, instead of Roger. Not a bad idea; a little peace went a long way in the world today. Mir. They could use a lot more of it, particularly in Africa where the massacres were still going on.

There was no need for a hold on the fueling. The bypass worked and the faulty valve was replaced. But this was minor, one of the expected difficulties. There was enough time built into the countdown to correct small malfunctions. Even time for more major trouble by having a hold when the clock stopped and everyone and everything waited until the problem was licked. But there could not be too many holds and they could not be too long, because there was a limited amount of time that all the complex systems could be held in readiness. Some systems had a life that could be measured in days, even hours. After this cryogenic fuels could cause unreliability. If enough holds added up an entire mission could be scrubbed. And if Prometheus were scrubbed it might be months before it would be ready to go again. Unthinkable. Years of preparation had built towards this moment, the reputations of two nations were at stake. The leaders of both were watching and the world was watching them. And they were all watching Flax. The knot tightened.

A red light on a board, one of many thousands. Some switches thrown to test, then a phone call and an answer, then through to Kletenik.

“We have some trouble here at twenty-seven, could we see you.”

It was the toneless voice that troubled Kletenik, the forced calmness that meant someone was worried. Which had him worried. He unplugged his headset and walked swiftly towards console twenty-seven.

In the isolation quarters Patrick was getting into his pressure suit, with Ely's assistance. He would not need it until they were in orbit and ready to assemble the solar collector: since Prometheus was designed to be a permanent space station the entire structure was pressurized and they would wear normal lightweight coveralls. But Patrick had been having pressure-suit trouble. Each astronaut had his suit made specially for him. Two suits, really, one for training that would take the wear and tear of daily use. The other for space walking. Both were made the same way, layers of fabric and rubber that had been sewn and glued together with infinite care. The suit had to be flexible enough to enable the wearer to move about, yet it had to be strong enough to contain the air pressure that kept him alive. It had to bend at the joints and be firm in between; all in all a magnificent compromise. That wasn't always perfect. Reinforcements could dig in and irritate so adjustments had to be made. A nagging piece of metal that rubbed Patrick's shoulder had been sent back three times for corrections, returning finally just before they had entered quarantine. He hoped it was right; if it wasn't there might still be time to correct it.

First the thin cotton underwear to prevent chafing. Then the slightly humiliating, but nevertheless necessary, donning of the triangular yellow plastic urine bag; it's not possible to make a quick call to the men's room when in space. Ely held up the bag and admired it.

“What a marvelous invention, symbol of man's conquest of space, “he said.

“A lot better than woman's symbol of that conquest. I should think a catheter would be damn uncomfortable.”

“Be happy then with your little rubber ring on the corner of the bag here that fits, oh so neatly, around your thing. Another comment on the age of science becoming the age of conformity. Although men come in all sizes from three-foot pigmies to seven-foot Scandinavians, their vital organs apparently come only in three sizes. Small, medium and large. There are only three size rings on these bags, aren't there?”

“Always referred to as extra large, immense and unbelievable. The male ego must be reassured. And when you're picking the right size don't let ego overrule reality. If you pick one too big it will leak, a condition known as 'wetback' that you won't enjoy.”

“I've been warned. Here, let me help you with the suit.”

Putting on a pressure suit was more like a snake getting back into its discarded skin than putting on normal clothes. Patrick struggled to get his feet through the resistance of the nylon inner lining. Once this was done he had to bend over double to work his arms far enough down the sleeves to let him put his head through the neck ring. Ely tugged strongly until Patrick's skull popped through.

“Thanks,” Patrick gasped. “I think you took all the skin off the back of my neck.”

“You could have stayed a nice safe test pilot instead of taking this giant step for mankind.”

“Zip up the back, will you.”

He didn't bother to pull the gloves on, he was hot enough as it was. Standing, he stamped around the room, swinging his arms.

“Feels all right. Let me try some bending…”

Something was wrong. He was aware of it at once — and then he saw it. The countdown clock, there was one in every room, had stopped at 83:22.

“It's a hold,” he said. “Find out what's causing it while I get out of this thing.”

They were all in the main room when Patrick got there and Nadya was just hanging up the phone. “They haven't located the source of the trouble yet,” she said. “But all fueling has stopped.”

“That can be dangerous with the tanks only partly filled,” Patrick said.

It went on for almost five hours. Only Ely seemed untroubled by the hold, his nose buried in a chess book, replaying a master tournament. He had started a game earlier with Colonel Kuznekov, but they had to abandon it because the Colonel's concentration kept wandering to the motionless clock. The numbers were frozen still at 83:22. Less than twelve hours into the countdown and already a major hold.

The phone rang at the same instant as the numbers began changing again.

“Right,” Patrick said, “we see it. Good. Let's hope it goes on this way.”

It did, for one day, then two — then the third — and it was time to enter Prometheus.

“You know,” Coretta said, kneading her hands together. “It is one thing to say you're going to do something — and another to get around to doing it. You sure I can't have a drink, Patrick?”

“Contraindicated. No alcohol for jet pilots twenty-four hours before a flight. Forty-eight for us. Space flight's an uncompromising business.”

“But you and Nadya will be doing all the piloting. The rest of us are sort of passengers.”

“Sorry. You're crew. I don't think any situations will arise where we'll need your help at once. But it could happen. Relax. Think good thoughts.”

He reached out and held her arms, sharing his strength with her. She was frightened and they both knew it, and knew as well that she must get over it. The world was watching, literally. Watching the Launch Control countdown at this moment, but all cameras would be focused on the astronauts as soon as they emerged. His hands felt good and Coretta relaxed a bit, leaning forward and placing her head against his chest. There was perfume in her hair, just a trace, and he resisted the impulse to stroke it.

“I want a rain check on this,” he said. She turned her face up to his and smiled.

“You're very good for a girl's morale, Patrick. When we get back from this little pleasure trip I want to see more of you.”

“That's a promise.” He kissed her, and that was a promise too that they both understood.

“It's time,” Nadya said from the open doorway. “They are expecting us all.” Her face was expressionless, her voice toneless.

“We'll be there,” Patrick said, just as emotionlessly, not releasing Coretta until Nadya had turned and left.

“You and Nadya aren't quite the partners you should be,” Coretta said, straightening her hair in the mirror. She was calm now, the moment of panic past. Doctors aren't supposed to let their feelings show. You learned early to put on an assured air like a suit of armor. She could do it now — but she knew that she had needed Patrick's help, had appreciated it.

“We work together all right,” he said, then smiled and looked at the lipstick on his handkerchief where he had wiped his lips. “Let me tell you, this is a hell of a lot better than the all-man days at NASA.”

“I think you're oversexed and I'll give you some saltpeter pills to calm you down. You missed a spot on your lip, there. Come on, let's go.”

They were all there, dressed in silver one-piece suits. In the name of equality the Soviets had abandoned their usual red boiler suits, the Americans their blue ones. A compromise on silver, symbolic of the great silver wings that Prometheus would spread in space, had been made and that was what they wore. On each left breast was the symbol of Prometheus One. A star-shot disc of black space with the bold silver mirror of the solar generator in the center, as it would look when opened. To one side was the red star, on the other the stars and stripes; the red star appropriately to the left. (Though a letter to the London Times had pointed out that left was, heraldically, the right.)

Ely was standing on a chair and adjusting the focus of the television pickup. Kuznekov sat before the screen talking to the technician imaged there.

“A little up, there, that's fine,” the man said. “I would like the two outer books moved in a bit. Bit more, that's fine, a real winner.”

Patrick looked at the books on the floor that Nadya had been moving and his eyes widened. “Is it permitted to ask just what the hell is going on?”

“You might very well ask,” Ely said, climbing down from the chair. “Someone in high places has decided that our morale would be immensely improved if we had a chance to chat with B and P before the flight. They come on in a couple of minutes.”

“Not in the flesh, I hope.”

“God forbid. Bandin's in Washington, Polyarni in the Kremlin I guess. A miracle of misapplied technology will permit us all to talk together. Let's go.”

The books marked the spot on the floor where they were to stand and, more or less good-naturedly, they took their places. They had to shuffle closer together to get on camera and then it was time.

“Stand by,” the technician said, and his harried face was replaced by a split screen with Bandin on one side, the Soviet Premier on the other.

“This is a very great moment in the history of the world,” Bandin said. Then Polyarni made almost the same remark in Russian. Patrick nodded and tried to look intelligent, aware of the stiff figures standing on both sides and fighting down the sensation that they must look like a row of silver-plated teddy bears. Polyarni started to talk again but Bandin beat him to it.

“When I say a great moment in the history of the world I indeed mean just that. Yes, this is a victory for the technology, the hard work, the sheer guts of the men and women of our two great nations who created the Prometheus Project and who will see it carried through to glorious completion. But more than that it is a victory for all mankind, echoing the words of Neil Armstrong, the first man to ever walk on the Moon — this is a great step for mankind…”

“I agree, Mr. President,” Polyarni broke in when Bandin made the mistake of pausing an instant for breath. “A tradition for greatness in space exploration that began with the first man to fly in orbit, Yuri Gagarin.”

“Yes, of course, how true.” Score tied, one-one. “For mankind itself is on the threshold of a great new age that will open when Prometheus blasts a fiery trail into the heavens to tap the inexhaustible energy of the sun. We will be freed forever from dependency upon our ever decreasing store of fossil fuels, and in doing this we shall leave forever the age of suspicion and distrust between nations and enter that of mutual peace and prosperity on Earth for all.”

There was more of this from both of them and Patrick shifted slowly from one foot to the other so his muscles wouldn't cramp or go to sleep. The countdown clock was visible behind the TV screen and he experienced a great feeling of relief when it clicked over to 02:00. He took a firm step forward and nodded at both men, and spoke in the momentary silence.

“Thank you, Mr. President. Balshoya Spaseebo tovarisch presidyent. We are better prepared for this mission now that we have talked with you and, in the name of my crew, I offer our thanks. However, the countdown has reached the moment when we must depart for the spacecraft. Thank you again, and good-bye.”

He walked briskly out of range of the camera and the others, trying not to hurry, came after him. The connection was broken and Kuznekov yawned and stretched widely.

“Boshemoi! How boring politicians can be, of whatever nation. A necessary evil I suppose, but one I've had my fill of.”

Ely nodded agreement. “No one ever got shot for something they didn't say. Therefore politicans say nothing and get elected on their charm or charisma or PR or whatever it is.”

“Chitchat later,” Patrick said. “The carrier should be sealed to the exit port now. Before we go I want all personal effects in the plastic bags, and this means emptying your pockets too. No ham sandwiches on this flight, or postage stamps, extra first-day covers, pictures of the Pope or Lenin. Nothing. That was the agreement and we'd better not blow it.”

“We do not have your capitalistic instincts to turn an honest buck,” Kuznekov said, smiling. “So are happy to agree. But isn't there still a little capitalistic business to repay us for sacrificing any attempt at personal free enterprise?”

“You know perfectly well,” Ely told him. “We have three hundred first-day covers with the special stamps from both countries. We have a handstamp and we will cancel them in space. We will have fifty each to keep or sell and do what we want with the money. Mostly pay income tax I guess.”

Patrick checked the transparent plastic bag each astronaut carried. There were only the normal personal items he expected to find. He looked at his watch.

“Right on time. Let's go.”

Patrick led the way, pausing only to shake hands with the cook and the two maids who had looked after them during their quarantine. “I'm coming back for more of your potato pancakes, Ivan,” he said in slow Russian.

“I'll have a washtub full, a bathtub full waiting when you land, Major!”

The green light was on over the exit portal. Patrick spun the wheel that secured the door and there was a slight hissing as the pressure equalized. The quarters for the quarantine period had been sealed away from the outside world to make sure they did not contract colds or any other infections. All the food and water they would need had been locked in with them. The air they breathed was pumped in through elaborate filters and the interior pressure kept higher than the ambient air outside. This way any air that leaked would leak out of their quarters and possible infected air could not enter. Now they were leaving — but still in quarantine.

As the door opened they could see another door just inches away, still damp from the disinfectant that had been sprayed on it. Patrick opened this door as well and they entered the hermetically sealed people carrier. There were large windows in the sides of the vehicle, which was really a large box carried on a flatbed truck.

There had been no windows in their quarantine quarters, part of the psychological adjustment to condition them to sealed-in living in space. They had talked with others on the phone, usually about technical matters. Or had made long-distance calls to their families at home. In their single-minded attention to their work they had forgotten how many people were involved with the project, how much the world Was interested in what was happening to them.

They found out now. People, people everywhere. Waving, shouting, pushing to get a glimpse of the astronauts, with the photographers in front clicking away and fighting to stay in position. The shouting was clearly heard, even through the insulated wall of the sealed carrier. Soldiers cleared a path for the vehicle which started slowly forward. The astronauts waved back, suddenly shocked speechless by the reality of what was happening.

This was the day.

This was the big one.

Slowly and carefully the truck moved forward and around a corner and away from the laboratory complex. At the end of the wide road Prometheus waited, white clouds coming from her venting ports, the hot sun gleaming from her metal flanks. Still looking more like a skyscraper than a structure designed to fly. The cluster of rockets was a hundred and fifty feet above the ground. And, up there, standing above the bullet snouts, was the single projectile form of Prometheus itself, now revealed fully with the removal of the VAB. Only the Launch Tower remained, connected to the spaceship and boosters by its Service Swing Arms.

With slow precision the truck backed up to the base of the tower and locked its brakes. Clamps were loosened at the same time and the carrier was rolled backwards onto the elevator and once more locked into place. Then it shuddered and began to rise slowly into the air.

“I'm a little shaky,” Coretta said.

“So am I,” Ely told her. “We all are, nothing else would be possible.” Endlessly, the metal flanks of the boosters flowed by outside. “I'll bet even our steel-nerved pilots have butterflies in the stomach at this time. Is that true, Nadya?”

“Of course, only a stupid person does not feel fear. But really, it is only the waiting that bothers you. Once a mission begins you're so busy there's no time for worry or fear or anything else.”

With a slight vibration the elevator eased to a stop. They had arrived. Technicians outside rolled the carrier forward. One of them was waving excitedly and pointing ahead.

“What's he trying to say?” Patrick asked, suddenly uneasy.

“Making like throwing switches and talking into something,” Ely said. “Wait a bit, he's writing on that piece of paper.”

The carrier locked against the wall of the spacecraft, the man finished writing and held up the paper. USE RADIO NOW it said. Patrick nodded agreement.

“What is it about?” Nadya asked, puzzled. Patrick shrugged.

“No way of knowing yet. We'll just jump ahead in the countdown and switch on the radio first. There's the light.”

With the green light on, the door could be opened once again. The wet metal of Prometheus was just outside. Patrick flipped up the cover on the controls and actuated them, stepping back as the hatch cover swung slowly towards him. He bent and led the way in.

“Nadya, close the hatch after the last one,” he said. “I'll get on the radio.”

He dropped onto the pilot's couch and turned the radio on.

“… peat. Kletenik here calling Prometheus. Do you hear me? Please come in, Prometheus. Repeat…”

“Hello, Launch Control, Prometheus here.”

“Major Winter, we are having some difficulties. I have been discussing this with higher authorities and with Mission Control in Houston. They wish to talk with you. I am patching you through.”

“Go ahead,” Patrick said calmly, not showing the sudden sharp worry he felt. “Can you read me, Mission Control?”

“Fine, Patrick, clear as a bell. Listen. . I haven't got the world's best news for you. I've been talking with Kletenik and I've been onto the White House. “

“What is it, Flax?”

“Trouble. You need a hold, a long hold, and we don't think you have enough time. It looks like we're going to have to scratch this mission and reschedule.“