The Tranquillity Alternative (22 page)

The close approach gave Parnell a good opportunity to look over
Conestoga
. It was the fifth moonship the USSF had commissioned, and also the last. Constructed in the early seventies as a lunar shuttle, it had followed the same general plans as the
Eagle
-class vessels the Space Force had used during Project Luna; after the four earlier vessels were decommissioned and cannibalized on the Moon,
Conestoga
had remained in service, flying bi-monthly supply missions to Tranquillity Base.

This made the ship more than twenty years old and its design almost thirty. Although it was true that a moonship escaped the weathering that caused Atlas ferries to age before their time, countless landings and liftoffs had gradually taken their toll on
Conestoga
. The fuel tanks had been patched many times, the broad shoes of the landing gear were eroded by moondust, and the engine exhaust nozzles were blackened and scarred. Even the American flags painted across either side of the personnel sphere were faded and streaked from coarse lunar regolith.

It was an old vessel, worn-out and tired, just capable of making one more voyage before it was dismantled and retired to the Smithsonian. As mighty as it was, the
Constellation
would soon be rendered obsolete by the spacecraft that Koenig Selenen GmbH already had in production: smaller, more cost-effective nuclear-powered ships that could make the trip straight from French Guiana to Tranquillity Base.

He glanced at Leamore, who had remained silent during the trip. If Koenig Selenen’s vice-president had any comments, he kept them to himself, nor could Parnell perceive his expression behind the gold visor of his helmet. Uwe Aachener, though, murmured something in his native tongue to Markus Talsbach, to which Talsbach responded with a short, derisive laugh and an unintelligible comment.

“You’ve got something to say, Mr. Talsbach?” Parnell asked.

A short pause. The two Germans pivoted slightly as they turned toward him.
I said only that it is a beautiful ship, Commander
, Talsbach replied.
It has
…
um, much history behind it, and it shows.

“How old are you, Mr. Talsbach?”

Talsbach hesitated.
I am twenty-eight years old,
he said.

“Twenty-eight. That means you were six when this ship was built, and the men who built it were old enough to be your fathers and grandfathers. Try to keep that in mind, please.”

Talsbach said nothing.
We intend no disrespect, Commander
, Aachener said after a moment.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Parnell replied. He looked out the hatch again. The taxi crewman had secured the transfer cable to
Conestoga
’s catwalk and opened the airlock hatch; his right arm was raised, signaling that it was time to come aboard. “Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Parnell heard Lewitt and Dr. Z chuckle as he hauled his duffel bag out of the net. Pulling the strap over his left shoulder, he gently pushed himself toward the cargo hatch. The other crewman grabbed his arm and brought him to the cable; for a moment, their helmets touched.

You tell ’em, skipper!
he heard the crewman yell.
Have a good trip!

“Thanks for the ride!” he shouted back. He grabbed the taut line with both hands and took a deep breath. The crewman slapped his forearm, then pushed him out of the hatch.

Fifty minutes later, Parnell pushed shut the interior hatch of
Conestoga
’s main airlock and spun the lockwheel. A faint hiss told him that the astronauts inside were depressurizing the compartment; one of them looked up through the airlock window and gave him the thumbs-up. Parnell returned the gesture, then grasped the ladder and pulled himself through a narrow crawl space onto Deck D.

The circular deck was lined with lockers, most of them containing the crew’s hardsuits. Jay Lewitt floated in front of the master electrical board at one end of the deck, making a last-minute check of the circuit breakers.

“Found that fuse yet?” Parnell asked.

Jay nodded. “Found it and replaced it.” While they were running through a general systems test on the command deck, the main computer had informed them of a blown fuse in the primary electrical backup circuit. Nothing critical, but it had halted the countdown by ten minutes while Lewitt located the problem and dealt with it. “Go on up,” he said. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Okey-doke.” Parnell pulled himself along the ceiling handrails until he reached the gangway ladder next to the head, then glided up the ladder to Deck C, where he paused to check on the passengers.

As the ship’s living quarters, C-deck was the largest compartment in the personnel sphere. Near the gangway was a round mess table and small galley, with a small TV and VCR mounted above the table. On the other side of the room were fold-down acceleration couches, only half of which were occupied. As usual, Paul Dooley seemed to be having trouble strapping himself in; he was being assisted by Berkley Rhodes, who seemed to be getting more accustomed to space travel with every passing hour. On the other hand, Alex Bromleigh looked as if he was beginning to regret making this trip; he stared out the porthole next to his couch, his hands nervously gripping the padded armrests.

“When are you going to be leaving, Commander?” James Leamore called from his couch. The two Koenig Selenen astronauts appeared to be taking everything in stride, although Uwe Aachener seemed to be secretly amused by Dooley’s battle with his harness. Markus Talsbach was reading a paperback; Parnell earnestly hoped it was an English-German dictionary.

“Very soon,” Parnell replied. “I’m sorry for the delay, but Jay’s got it under control.” Leamore nodded, and Parnell continued his ascent up the ladder.

Next stop was the logistics area on B-deck, where the ship’s computer mainframes surrounded the navigation plotting table. When the first
Eagle
-class moonships were built, this deck had been jammed with clunky IBM System/360s programmed by big spools of magnetic tape. Those big machines were long gone, replaced by smaller Japanese computers, with only the empty bolt-holes in the deck plates to mark their passing. Even so, the new computers were obsolete by at least ten years, and the plotting table was a seldom-used holdover from the old days.

Still, all that empty space was useful for something; before Tranquillity Base was shut down, it had served as a cargo hold. As well, there were five extra couches folded against the bulkhead on the far end of the compartment, next to the tiny shower stall which could only be used once
Conestoga
was on the Moon. The women could benefit from the privacy, if they didn’t mind sharing the showers with seven men. Parnell grinned at the memory of the Luna Two mission, when the ship had been filled to maximum passenger capacity and the Eagle had the ambiance of a college frat house. Back then, the only females aboard ship had been a few pregnant lab rats and a Raquel Welch pinup on C-deck.

He checked the row of CRTs above the plotting table to make certain that all the computers were operational, then pulled himself up the ladder to Deck A. Located at the top of the ship, the command center was
Conestoga
’s most crowded compartment. Banks of dials, switches, and gauges surrounded the astrogator’s station, a swivel-mounted telescope and armchair positioned directly beneath a large transparent dome in the ceiling, leaving just enough room for three couches. Like B-deck’s plotting table, many of the dials and gauges lining the sloping walls were now redundant at best, their once-essential functions replaced by retrofitted LCDs and keyboards; they remained wired only because, like the astrogator’s station, removing them was more trouble than it was worth.

A generation ago, five men were required to fly
Conestoga
to the moon. Now only three people could do the same job … and, in a pinch, one guy could do it himself, if he or she knew how to reprogram all the computers.

Cristine Ryer lay in the pilot’s couch at the opposite end of the deck, a clipboard propped in her lap as she ran through the launch checklist. “Jay says he’s replaced the fuse,” she said, barely looking up as Parnell floated to his own couch. “He says he’ll be up in …”

“Five minutes. I know, he told me.” Parnell hoisted himself into his couch and began to buckle the straps. “I just checked below and everything’s tight. How’s the countdown going?”

“Everything’s green and A-OK. All tanks loaded and pressurized, no leakage detected.” Ryer stowed the clipboard in the net beneath her couch, then reached up to flip a couple of switches. “Just completed telemetry check with the Wheel. We’ve got permission to fire engines when ready.”

“Sounds good to me.”
Conestoga
’s launch timetable wasn’t quite as strict as those held to by ferries sent up from the Cape; if he fudged it by a couple of minutes, it wouldn’t be too much. Parnell pulled his headset over his ears, and adjusted the mike. He lowered the master control board from the low ceiling until it was just above his lap, then tapped a few commands into the keyboard. The tiny LCD screen lit to show him a status rundown of the ship’s primary systems. “Okay,” he said, “if you’re ready for final sequence …”

“Ready.”

“Arm engines, starting with cluster one.”

She reached up to unlock a panel above her head and snap a set of toggles. “Cluster one, engines one through three, armed and ready …”

“Check. Cluster two, arm.”

“Cluster two, engines four through nine, check …”

Parnell glanced at the gangway ladder. No sign of Lewitt yet, although the board showed no more warning lights on the backup electrical loop. The engineer was probably double-checking things on his own. For a moment, they had some privacy. “Cluster three, arm … you know, we never had a chance to have that little discussion.”

“Cluster three, engines ten through fifteen, check … don’t remember what you’re talking about, Commander.”

He cast a glance across the compartment at her. “Call it an attitude check, Captain,” he said softly.

Ryer didn’t look his way. “Attitude’s fine, Commander,” she said stiffly. “Ready to arm next engine cluster.”

“Hang on a sec.” He pushed aside the board and sat up as far as the straps would permit. “The Moon’s not going anywhere. I want to know what the hell’s bothering you.”

She continued to stare fixedly at her board. “Nothing is bothering me, Commander, and this isn’t a good time to be asking.” Before he could reply, Ryer looked straight at him. “Does the Commander wish to hold countdown so he can have the pilot replaced?”

It was a tempting notion, one which would possibly save the mission a lot of grief. A mission commander had to have absolute faith in his first officer; otherwise, he would be put in the position of having to second-guess him or her. If this exchange had occurred only twenty-four hours ago, while they were still at the Cape, then Parnell might have scrubbed the launch and waited for someone at NASA to find a replacement for Ryer.

On the other hand, he reminded himself, he wasn’t at liberty to do that, then or now. Ryer was on this mission because she was the last flight-rated moonship pilot in the astronaut corps; everyone else had retired three years ago. It was much too late for her to be replaced, and she damn well knew it.

“No,” he said, “I don’t … but I want to know what’s bugging you.”

Ryer let out her breath. For a moment, he thought she was about to open up to him. Then the implacable hostility came back in her eyes as she returned her gaze to the console in front of her.

“Awaiting arm command for cluster four,” she said.

At that moment, he heard Lewitt climbing the ladder up from B-deck. He sighed and sank back into the coach’s cracked leather upholstery. “Resume countdown,” he said. “Cluster four, arm and check.”

There was the snap of toggles being thrown. “Cluster four, engines sixteen through twenty, armed and ready … sir.”

Lewitt’s head and shoulders appeared in the hatchway. “Okay, folks, we’re ready to roll,” he said as he pushed off a bulkhead and glided toward the engineering station midway between the pilot couches. When neither Parnell nor Ryer said anything, his expression changed to mild confusion. “What, did I miss something?”

“Never mind,” Parnell replied. “Just a minor disagreement. Cluster five, arm and check.”

Ryer flipped another set of switches. “Cluster five, engines twenty-one through twenty-five, armed and ready, Commander.”

Lewitt looked back and forth between his crewmates, but chose to remain silent. Instead, he strapped himself into his couch and swiveled around to face the enormous bank of gauges. “Okaaay … primary electrical backup is now green. Master hydraulics …”

They ran through the remainder of the checklist without any further snags.

Despite the countdown hold, the launch window was not seriously impaired. By this time,
Conestoga
had been towed to a safe distance from its hangar and the Wheel. The taxis and fuel tender were long gone, leaving the moonship alone in high orbit. On a TV monitor above his head, Parnell could see Space Station One rotating fifty miles away, perpetually falling toward the limb of the earth. The screen next to it displayed a forward view from the main antenna boom; dead ahead was the Moon, as bright and full as the first time he had sat in a commander’s chair twenty-six years ago.

Yet despite the similarity between that moment and this, he felt none of the anticipation or excitement that had preceded the Luna Two launch. Instead, for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, there was a sense of foreboding.

He put it out of his mind as he switched on the S-band transceiver. “Wheel command, this is
Conestoga
,” he murmured into his headset mike. “Checklist is complete and we’re go for launch.”

We copy, Conestoga
, Joe Laughlin’s voice said over the comlink.
You’re green for go. Anytime you’re ready. Good luck.

“Roger that, Wheel command, and thank you.” Parnell’s eyes swept his panel one last time; then he flicked back the tiger-striped guard above the main engine ignition switch and let his finger hover in place over it. “Captain, are you ready? On the count of zero.”