Back to the Moon (34 page)

Charlie nodded. “Sounds like they've got a troop with a shovel and a bucket. They've found our one vulnerable spot, Doc.”

Perlman studied the red cover. “What's this thing for?”

“Escape hatch. It goes from here up to ground level. The tunnel is filled with sand. The idea was that if the crew was ever trapped in here, they could open this hatch up, let the sand empty out, and crawl up to the surface. The exit up there was camouflaged but I guess whoever is after us found it.”

Perlman felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. “How long will it take them to get to us?” he asked the machinist.

Charlie shrugged. “My hunch is they'll dig for a while and then they'll get tired of that and start blasting. It'll take a lot of dynamite but they'll manage to get at us. I'd say we have maybe twenty-four hours before they punch through.”

“Anything we can do to stop them?”

Charlie looked around, at the Egg, the cavern roof, and the blast door that led to the fusion plant. “I been thinking about that, Doc, but I ain't come up with nothing yet.”

Perlman frowned and rubbed his eyes. “There has to be a way out of this. What do we have going for us?” He walked around in a tight little circle, snapping his fingers, mumbling to himself. “We have plenty of generators and lots of fuel. Can we use them for some defensive mechanism?”

Charlie also paced. Then he stopped and looked at the hatch. “Say, Doc, we got a lot of water down here, don't we?”

Perlman shrugged. “You know we do. We need it to cool the fusion plant and also for the steam generator that turns the turbines. We don't have to worry about dying of thirst, Charlie. We're more likely to drown if any of those bastards up there start blasting and crack the reservoir open.”

“Pumps are in good shape,” Charlie mused.

Perlman looked at the machinist. “What are you thinking, Charlie?”

Charlie's white-bearded face took on a diabolical grin. “Water, pumps, and generators. Doc, that's all we need!” He looked up at the hatch. “Keep diggin', boys. All you're gonna find is a whole lot of trouble!”

PENNY'S LOG (1)

Columbia

The flight deck is warm and the middeck cool. When I go below, I have a sweater there that I put on. I checked my experiment and the cells were doing well. I looked at what I think of as my “ruined” sample and am surprised to see that the coil in the center has grown even more and has started to take on what appears to be mitosis. It is the sheep nerve cells that have divided, and they are assuming a definite pattern. I am interested in the white strands that seem to be interweaving them. Virgil watched me with interest while I went through my routine. While I worked, he and I talked about his family.

Virgil's daughter is undergoing expensive procedures at the Mayo Clinic this week involving genetic splicing. I have read about it, and can give him a hopeful report that it has had some success in lung diseases, including cystic fibrosis. But I still wonder how a man can choose to leave his family, probably forever, on a dicey mission such as this. He is a fanatic, I suppose, made so by his belief in spaceflight and his loyalty to Jack.

Jack, Jack. Our mystery man, Jack. What is he doing here?

When I ran out of anything else to do today, I watched the earth. The best place for that is the aft flight deck. The earth at this altitude assumes a three-dimensional aspect that is not evident on orbit. My home planet sits, a giant blue sphere wreathed in white cloud streaks and whorls and eddies, on a cushion of deep velvety blackness, her thin atmosphere a shimmering corona. There is no fuzziness to her, as she is seen in the photographs by the
Apollo
astronauts. Her edges, her landscape, even her clouds, are starkly defined.

The earth is also getting smaller—orange-sized now—but I find to my surprise I feel no sadness, or longing. I am strangely excited by what lies ahead, not nervous or afraid at all. Only rarely do I catch a glimpse of the moon, usually from the cockpit windows. She must be behind the earth or maybe just on the other side of
Columbia,
but I don't bother Medaris to ask about her. It's interesting that I think of the earth and the moon and our
Columbia
as females. Two of them are nurturers, earth and spacecraft. The moon, however, is to me like an aunt who travels and never marries, who brings her nieces and nephews strange, incomprehensible gifts that we treasure but never love. The moon has a streak of independence that causes us to admire her, but she has a callousness, too, that makes her unloved. But maybe, I think, that is because we do not know her. Soon, we shall.

Medaris has been instructing me and Virgil on a lot of things we may need to know when he's on the surface. Shuttle systems, how to operate the RMS, things like that. These were the things Cassidy would have done but now it's up to Virgil and me. I would avoid it if I could, but it makes sense to learn as much as I can if Jack is really going to try to land on the moon. The truth is he might not come back. I might as well accept the reality of it. To have any chance of ever getting home, I have to learn all I can, work with Virgil and Medaris, no matter how hateful he is. It is just us out here.

Us.

I like the sound of that.

CECIL'S COMPROMISE

Attorney General's Office, Justice Department

Cecil was led once again into the office of the attorney general and told to wait. He passed the time looking at the AG's family photos, a grim lot of farmers in coveralls and chintz. No awards or diplomas decorated the wall. She favored agrarian scenes. Then she was there, pointing at a chair. She looked tired, heavy bags under her hazel eyes. “Sit,” she ordered.

He sat while she hunkered down behind a big oak desk. “Well, Velocci. None of my boys and girls can figure out how to break your contract. It's legal. And our interrogation of astronaut Janet Barnes has shown that Cassidy's death was an accident, so it's unlikely a murder rap would stick to your clients either.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“However,” she continued, “assuming they survive this idiocy, which I think is doubtful, they're still going to jail. MEC deliberately endangered astronauts in the launch tower elevator. Tacked on to that is the destruction of considerable government property.” She consulted a file. “A data line at Kennedy Space Center plus three shuttle main engines and other unauthorized alterations to the shuttle
Columbia.
Estimated damages are in the neighborhood of five billion dollars. Since it is clear now that they are headed to the moon, unspecified in your contract, it appears they may also be in violation of the 1967 Outer Space Treaty, which stipulates no operation may occur on or near the lunar surface without consultation with the international community.”

Cecil scratched his head. “Excuse me, ma'am, but I believe the treaty does not make such consultation an absolute requirement. It is caveated, as I understand it, to say that it should be done “to the greatest extent feasible and practicable.' My announcement on an international television show accomplished that.”

“Don't con me, Velocci,” Hawthorne retorted. “Going on
Larry King Live
was hardly in the spirit of the treaty.”

“That may be, ma'am, but with all due respect I don't believe my clients have broken any international laws.” Cecil dug a document out of his crammed briefcase. “I think you should be aware of this: it is a copy of the incorporating papers for the Medaris Engineering Company in Grand Cayman, British West Indies. MEC is not an American company but Caymanian. And Grand Cayman is not a signatory to the Outer Space Treaty.”

“You really think this kind of crap would hold up in court?”

“I think it would hold up for many, many years of appeals.”

To Cecil's amazement Hawthorne allowed a toothy grin to slide across her plain face. “By God, if I ever get into trouble, I want you to be my attorney, Mr. Velocci!”

Cecil blushed and looked down at his lap. “Thank you, ma'am.”

When he looked up, she was no longer grinning. “All right, Velocci, let's get down to cases. All smoke and mirrors aside, we'll find something on your clients that's going to stick. Considering what they've done, how's it going to look if we don't?”

It was Cecil's turn to surprise the AG. “I understand you've been looking into the Puckett Security Services. Find anything useful yet?”

Hawthorne grunted. “That's not anything I can talk about, Velocci. But we're interested in PSS, yeah.”

“They tried to burn Jack out. Must be pretty bad hombres.”

“The baddest,” Hawthorne said, and then was silent.

Cecil brightened, as if an idea had just popped into his mind. “May I make a suggestion for a compromise—off the record, of course?”

Hawthorne shrugged. “Fire away.”

“I fully understand that you can't just let my clients go—a bad precedent and all that—but what if we were willing to stipulate that there were certain... irregularities in the manner in which a portion of the contract was performed? I'm speaking specifically of the “modification' of the data lines at the Cape Canaveral launch complex.”

“You mean cop a plea?”

“I think a fine equal to the amount of repairs would be appropriate.”

“What about the damage to the shuttle?”

“We believe there's been no damage done to the shuttle. The modifications undertaken by MEC have in fact improved her. She was a vehicle capable of only low earth orbit, but now she's one that can travel to the moon.”

Hawthorne pursed her thin lips. “Interesting logic. I'll need some time to think about what you've said.” She waved her hand in dismissal.

“May I go home? The wife and kids have been staying in a motel all this time for safety. We've all had it. We just want to go back to our island.”

She leaned her head on her hand, tapped her temple. “Yes, but don't go anywhere where I can't find you.”

“No problem.” He headed for the door, trying to imagine where on the planet he could go that this woman couldn't track him down.

“Velocci?”

Cecil stopped at the door. Almost made it! “Ma'am?”

“What's your plans—after all this?”

“I'm never going to leave Cedar Key again.”

“Sounds like a wise move. Any beachfront property down there available for an old warhorse like me?”

Cecil raised his eyebrows and dug into his briefcase. This MEC gig was just a one-shot affair.
A man still has to make a living....
“Now that you mention it, I just happened to have these brochures....”

THE EXALTED LEADER

Farside Control

Starbuck assembled his troops before the refurbished Farside Control Center. On the front wall hung two big virtual panels to give a visual representation of both the Farside controlled vehicles and the target, i.e.,
Columbia.
A tier of six control consoles stood in a line in front of the panels. Behind them, on a pedestal, sat a bank of three consoles canted so that the person in the single chair behind them could swivel easily to see what each screenload held. The nameplate on the chair read EXALTED LEADER.

Starbuck, in a King Arthur costume, his favorite, reviewed his troops, ten programmers plus one guard, all members of the local Society for Creative Anachronism, each in the costume of his or her choice. The guard had stretched the concept way past medieval times, appearing in the full-dress regalia of a Klingon warrior from the
Star Trek
series.

“To victory!” a knight cried, raising his wooden sword.

“And may might make right!”

“And to our blessed king,” another knight exhorted while the ladies curtsied.

Starbuck, choking with pride, looked over his people. “God bless California!” was all his emotions would allow him to say.

HIGH EAGLE'S DISCOVERY

Columbia

Columbia
was one hundred thousand miles out from earth when Penny decided to check her cell culture experiment again. She examined each one, photographing as she went, carefully marking each sample, and taking notes. Finally she clicked the last sample, the contaminated one, into the microscope tray and took a look, not expecting much. What she saw amazed her. “Medaris, get down here!” she yelled.

He poked his head through the hatch. “What?”

“Look!” She pointed at her microscope.

Jack came headfirst through the hatch, did an easy somersault, and settled in behind the microscope. He put his eye to it, fiddling with its adjustment knobs. “So?” he said after lifting his eye away.

“Medaris,” Penny said, her eyes wide, “I think it's a neural pathway fragment!”

He looked into the eyepiece again. “You're growing a spinal cord?”

Penny nodded vigorously. “Yes! How can you be so blas é about it? I've got to let researchers back on earth know about this!”

Jack shook his head. “I don't think that's a good idea, High Eagle. I don't want to rattle any cages back there.”

“Look, Medaris, what I have here could be more important than anything else on this mission!”

He shook his head. “Think about it, High Eagle. What good would it do to tell the ground? You can't send them any photographs. The SAREX has no way of sending pictures even if you had a way of developing them, which you don't. And let me ask you something. With all the accelerations this culture has had on it, how could you ever hope to duplicate it?”

She glared at him. “You just don't get it, do you? It's very clear what's happened. A lucky accident! The combination of sheep nerve cells and frog growth DNA in an incubator in a microgravity environment has produced something remarkable. Space just might be the place to grow nerve tissue for paralysis victims, Medaris! This could be a suicide mission
—don't argue with me!
It could be! We need to get this news back to earth while we're still in shape to do it!”