The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 7

THE COUNTDOWN by John Haase

In the catalogue of natural wonders, along with such unlikely miracles as the existence of self-conscious intelligence, the fecundity of humanity, and the evolution of communication, we may now add this marvel: that, after two decades of possession of a means of destruction volatile enough to match our mob furies, we (the people, of the third planet) are still very much alive.

The almost incredible indication is that we are — slowly, with utmost caution — approaching a real awareness of the irrevocability of the global interdependence our technology has created. Not only is it increasingly obvious that the worst they can do to us (from either viewpoint) is less terrible than what we-and-they can do to all-of-us; it is also becoming clear how much we-and-they might do, if we chose, for all of us; and further clear that the most we can do will be none too much, for if we avoid self-devastation, we may well be faced with self-suffocation.

Mankind, united, will undoubtedly level mountains and plumb the ocean depths; but with the same strength, we can more readily perhaps find our new space out in space. The stories that follow this one are all based on the assumption that man can and will go out to other worlds. This one is still set on a near-future Earth, but it concerns a pioneer of the still-uncertain emigration. It is the first science fiction (to my knowledge) by an author best known for his novel. The Fun Couple (Simon & Schuster, 1961), from which the hit Broadway play was adapted.

Carrying his duffelbag, Jack Bell climbed the stairs to Dan Oldfield’s office. The door was open, and through the outer office, now empty of secretaries, Bell could see Oldfield sitting at his desk, the phone in one hand, a toothpick in the other. Bell walked in without knocking, and waited for the other man to finish his conversation.

Oldfield hung up the phone. “Well, old Sleepy Bell. I thought you’d crashed by now.”

“Almost — not quite, though.”

Oldfield watched Bell. He noticed the gray creeping in around the temples, the flaccid cheeks, the pushed-out face from too many rides in the centrifuge.

“I need a blast,” Bell said.

“Drink?” Oldfield asked.

“No, thanks. Never touch it.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Oh, can it,” Bell said, sitting down without being asked, his duffelbag beside him.

“How many blasts have you had this year?” Oldfield asked.

“One. A Redstone. Suborbital.”

“A liquid-fuel job, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Bell looked around the office. There were dusty models of the Redstone, the Mercury capsule, the Minuteman, a few brownish photographs of pads at Vandenburg, at Cape Canaveral, and one picture, taken years before, in the infancy of space flight, of the seven original astronauts; a few framed newspaper clippings; a business license; a Lions Club plaque.

“There aren’t many blasts around,” Oldfield said.

“I’m still an astronaut, you know,” Bell said.

“Sure,” Oldfield said, “and I’m still a space agent. Well, I can book you into a night space circus right here at the Cape. By the lake on the edge of town.”

Bell looked at the agent. “I hate circuses. You know that.”

“It’s all I’ve got. Still got your G-suit?”

“Yeah. What about the real blasts here at the Cape? I hear they’re trying for a soft Mars landing.”

“They are. It’s all Air Force stuff.”

“How much for the circus?”

“Two hundred bucks.”

Bell sighed hard, then looked at Oldfield. “What time do they blast off?”

“Tomorrow night. Seven-thirty,” Oldfield said. “Countdown begins at six-thirty. Be there, and sober. It’s a little circus. They’ve only got one missile.”

Bell looked at Oldfield. “How about fifty on account?”

“Sure,” Oldfield said, and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“This is only twenty.”

“If you’re really on the wagon, that’s all the dough you’ll need till tomorrow night.”

“Yeah,” Bell said. “I guess you’re right.” He took the twenty-dollar bill and, getting up, started to leave. “He shook my hand, you know,” Bell said.

“Who?”

“The President.”

Oldfield looked at the astronaut, and a touch of compassion brushed his eyes. “Sure, Jack. Those were good days. Good for everybody.”

Bell picked up his duffelbag, which held his G-suit, his helmet, his boots, and a few toilet articles, and left the office.

“Oh, Bell!” Oldfield yelled.

“Yeah?”

“You got a dresser?”

“I think so. I think Barney’s still in town. He’s the best.”

“Well, that’s out of your cut.”

“I know,” Bell said. “I know.”

He left the building and walked along the broad boulevard. The warm breezes of the Cape ruffled his shirt slightly. He walked into the Hangar, a favorite bar of the astronauts, and put down his duffelbag in an empty booth.

A waiter came over. “What’ll you have?”

“Rye-on-the-rocks. Have you seen Barney?” Bell asked.

“Sure. You know Barney?”

“Yeah.”

“You a space jockey?”

Bell nodded.

“You on the Mars shot?”

“No.”

“Circus?”

“Just bring me the drink.”

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter returned with the drink. Bell drank it, and sat there and waited, and ordered another drink, and then another, and then Barney came in.

The two men had not seen each other for five years, maybe six, yet Barney walked right over, shook hands, and seemed not at all surprised to see Bell. He took a seat opposite Bell and ordered a drink.

“Well, kid, how’s things?” Barney asked.

“Up and down.”

“Very funny,” Barney said. “You guys always had a crummy sense of humor.”

“I guess we did. I got a favor to ask you, Barney.”

“Yeah? What’s the favor?”

“I need a dresser — the circus tomorrow night. You’re the best in the business.”

“I was,” Barney said. “I was. But no more. No more dressing for me.”

“I just thought I’d ask.”

“Yeah,” Barney continued. “I guess you haven’t heard.”

“What?”

“I bought me a little bait shop. Right on the coast. Four days I sell bait. Three days I fish. What a life!” He patted his stomach.

“Sounds good. Don’t need a partner?”

“No. We’re overstaffed now. That was the smartest thing I ever did. You know, Jack, I’m right near the Cape. I see ‘em go off every day and I say to myself, ‘Thank God.’ ‘Yeah. That’s what I say. ‘Thank God it ain’t my worry if that damned suit leaks, or if the valves are stuck, or there’s spit caught in the poor slob’s throat.’ “ Barney drank deeply and looked accusingly at Bell. “You think you guys had all the sweat? Do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, you didn’t. All you did was lie there. All the rest was up to the guys on the ground.”

“I know,” Bell said. “I know. I just thought I’d ask.”

“You’re not still blasting, are you, Jack?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You’re too old.”

“I did real good out on the Coast in the Orbit-O-Rama.”

“A milk run,” Barney said.

“Yeah.”

“What was the apogee?”

“Three hundred and forty miles,” Bell said.

“Yeah, kid stuff.” Barney nodded his head. “How many moon landings have you had, kid?”

“Two.”

Barney shook his head. “You’re too old, Jack. Why don’t you throw away the G-suit?”

“I just want to get up and out, Barney. I just want one more try. Up and out. I know a way.”

“A way what?”

“A way to beat ‘em to Mars.”

“Sure, Jack. The thing you’ll be riding won’t get you past five hundred…”

“You haven’t seen me lately, Barney.”

“I’ve seen you, Jack, I’ve seen you plenty. I seen you one night, Jack, I’d rather forget it.”

Bell stared at Barney. “All right, I was stewed. Jesus Christ. Haven’t you ever gotten stewed? You were with me. You dressed me. You checked me out. We rode over together in the van. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about that night plenty.”

“Well, why didn’t you stop me?”

“I didn’t know you was loaded. What the hell were you drinking? Vodka?”

Bell nodded.

“I couldn’t smell a thing on you. I thought you was tense, that’s all. How the hell can you tell about a guy? You’re lying on that chair in the van. We took the elevator up the gantry. I strapped you in. You were still lying there.”

“Well, I walked away from it, didn’t I?”

“Sure.” Barney nodded. “But the senator riding with you never saw home again.”

“I know,” Bell said. “I already got punished for it. I just asked you a question. Forget it.”

“How much they paying you for the blast tomorrow?”

“Two hundred.”

“Well, I get more than that for dressing.”

“That settles it then, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

The two men sat silently and alone.

“What time’s countdown?” Barney asked.

“Six-thirty.”

“Get a tank of oxygen, and I’ll meet you. Let me feel your suit.”

Bell reached for his duffelbag, loosened the strings, and pulled out an arm of his space suit. Barney picked up the empty sleeve and expertly kneaded the rubberlike material in his big sea-scarred hands. “Getting pretty stiff.”

“She’ll hold,” Bell said eagerly.

“Yeah,” Barney said. “She’ll hold.” He got up and left two dollars for his whiskey. “Old G-suit. Old space jockey, old missile. It’ll hold. Yeah.” He left the bar.

Bell arrived in the dressing shack of the circus grounds at five o’clock the next afternoon. A few minutes later, a boy knocked on the door. ‘This your oxygen?” he asked, lowering a tank to the floor.

“Yes.”

“Four-forty.”

Bell paid him, and the boy started to leave.

“Hey, kid,” Bell said.

“Yeah?”

“What kind of bird they got here?”

“A surplus Redstone.”

“Recovered?”

The kid laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Bell asked.

“Recovered? That thing’s been recovered twenty times.”

Bell remembered dimly the lectures on metal fatigue at the Cape. ‘Thanks, kid. Will you be watching the blastoff?”

“Nah. I gotta date. Gung-ho.”

The boy left, and Bell, sitting down on the wooden bench, unpacked his G-suit and his boots and his helmet. He laid out the tubing nice and straight, and unlaced the boots; then he unpacked the long woolen underwear and stripped naked to put it on. He scratched the tattoo mark where they used to tape on the first sensor. He felt his heart beat below it. Well, nobody cares how my ticker’s working now, he thought, laughing to himself. Up and out, he thought. One more try. He slipped on the woolen underwear, then zipped it shut and sat there on the bench waiting for Barney.

The door opened, and the circus manager came in. “Bell.”

“Yeah?”

“Let me smell your breath.”

“Oh, can it.”

“You dry?”

“Dry as a blotter.”

“O.K. Now, listen. Straight shot. Blastoff, apogee three hundred miles, retrojet, land in the lake behind us. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, just remember it. She’s loaded to the hilt. She takes a lot to get her off. But don’t go wasting the spare stuff. No fancy ideas. Get it?”

“Check.”

“Who’s dressing you?”

“Barney.”

“Good.”

Barney walked in and told the circus manager to beat it.

“Touchy little guy, ain’t you?” the manager said.

“You want to listen to the leaks?” Barney asked. “I ain’t getting nothing out of this.”

“O.K. O.K. Blastoff at seven-thirty. I want him to shake a few hands at seven-fifteen. Press. Stuff like that.”

“Ask him,” Barney said. “He ain’t got his helmet on.”

“O.K.,” Bell said. “O.K.”

The manager left, and Barney helped Bell get into the G-suit. Carefully, Bell stepped into one leg, then the other. Barney started pulling zippers, and then Bell’s torso slipped into the suit, and finally Barney strapped down the helmet. He attached a hose from the suit to the oxygen tank; then he attached a smaller hose to the suit and taped the other end of it behind his own ear.

“O.K., Jack. Here goes.” Slowly, Barney turned the knob on the oxygen tank and waited for the suit to inflate. He heard the gas flow out of the tank, but no air reached his ear. “The sucker’s leaking like a sieve,” he said.

“Give it more juice!” Bell shouted.

Barney increased the pressure on the valve, and the astronaut’s suit inflated slowly. Barney’s eyes watched the tarnished silver material lose its creases, and he listened to the exhaust behind his ear. He knew there were leaks; he could tell by the lack of pressure behind his ear. He ran his hands over the suit. He knew where to look for the leaks — the armpits, under the neck, at the seat. Sure. They were there. Big leaks. “She’ll never hold,” Barney said.

“She’ll hold!” Bell shouted. “Just glue them.”

Barney reached into his pocket and pulled out a tube of liquid rubber and slowly mended each hole, waiting for the rubber to harden, repressurizing the suit, listening, feeling, listening, gluing.

“I’ve got you tight at ten G’s,” Barney yelled. “You get any cute ideas and you’ll turn into a jigsaw puzzle.”

“Run ‘er up,” Bell said.

“What for? You ain’t goin’ nowhere past three hundred miles.”

“Run ‘er up, Barney.”

Barney increased the pressure. He watched the G-meter. Eleven Gs, twelve, thirteen — then he heard the leaks again. “See?” he said, pointing to one of them.

“Glue it,” Bell said.

Barney glued and reduced the pressure. He held up both hands. “Ten Gs is all she’ll take. And you’ll be lucky at that.”

The circus manager came to the door. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Barney said.

The circus manager looked at Barney, then at Bell, and led the way as they walked the two hundred yards to the missile, past the snake show, the belly dancers, the penny pitches, a hot-dog stand, a wheel of fortune.

Heavy ropes held back about a hundred spectators. There was no press. Bell knew there’d be no press. He stepped over the ropes and looked at the missile. It was an old-timer. The markings “U.S. Army” had been crudely painted out, and the words “Kingsley Shows” ran up the length of the missile, the paint faded and scorched.

Bell felt better when he was knee-deep in vapor at the base of the missile. There was no elevator, just a steel ladder. He mounted the ladder, and Barney trailed behind him. There were sixty-five steps, and on the fiftieth Bell stopped and looked at the corroding seams of the missile’s skin. He pointed to them for Barney to see and continued his climb until he reached the hatch of the capsule. There he did not hesitate, but stepped in and lay down on the well-worn leather couch. He spread his arms and waited for Barney to strap him in.

Barney puffed heavily and sat down on the floor of the capsule. He made a thumbs-down gesture in front of Bell’s helmet, but Bell yelled, “Strap on!”

“She ain’t safe!” Barney yelled. “Forget it. Well go fishing.”

“She’ll go,” Bell said.

“Ditch the ride,” Barney pleaded. “Let’s go fishing.”

“Count down!” Bell shouted.

Barney mechanically strapped the shoulder braces and leg braces. He took a last pressure reading of the suit, then started to step out.

“Jack, for Christ’s sake. Eject. Go up and eject.”

“Count down, Barney.”

Barney reached in his pocket and pulled out the tube of liquid rubber. He squeezed the tube and poured a small mound of rubber on the instrument panel in front of Bell. “Just watch the rubber, Jack,” Barney said. “If she starts to bubble—” He pointed down. “Retrojet. Do you hear me?”

Bell watched Barney and smiled. “Cut bait!” Bell shouted, and Barney left the capsule, sealed it, and descended the long steel ladder. He joined the circus manager in the control wagon.

“You sure that jockey was sober, Barney?” the manager asked.

“What do you want for two hundred bucks?”

“I want my missile back in one piece.”

“Did you ever shake the President’s hand?” Barney asked.

The manager looked at him. “He don’t go around shaking carnies’ hands.”

“No, I guess he don’t.”

Barney left the control wagon and heard the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, at the count of zero you will witness a manned space flight. At the controls — Jack Bell, the second man to reach the moon. Are you ready now? Count down… ten — nine — eight — seven—”

Barney could barely hear the countdown, and yet, out of habit, he counted to himself as he walked down the highway. He saw, over his shoulder, the lights dim behind him as the circus generators ignited die fuel, and then he saw his shadow clearly ahead of his body as the blastoff lit the countryside. He could not bring himself to look back and see whether his friend lifted off the pad. He walked on, and his right hand played nervously with the tube of rubber cement in his pocket. Then he yanked it out and threw it into the gully at one side of the road.