Hello, Posterity…! Great life, isn’t it?
Sorry; being silly. Please excuse. Euphoria betrays intensity of relief on finding self still alive.
Quite unexpectedly so: Surviving events of this morning brings new depth to expression “cheating odds.”
Granted, details of flirtation with Grim Reaper, viewed objectively, probably of interest to participant only (was indeed; heart surely stopped couple times from thrill factor alone). But data valuable to Adam; understanding cause of problem key to preventing repetition — and truly in favor of that: Airplane engine failure contains potential for more than passing inconvenience!
Shan’t bother with introduction, history review this time around. Don’t anticipate spending much time on this volume: Shall merge with Vol. III immediately upon rejoining party (tomorrow morning, with luck). Could make record then, but events best recorded while fresh in mind.
(Originally planned to use this pen, pad to make notes, draw map en route. Instead, will discharge duty to history during twilight hours, plus entertain self.)
Trap sprung during this morning’s first reconnaissance flight while heading generally east over Sierra Nevadas, studying roads en passant, reporting back via helmet radio.
USGS map suggested possible logging/fire-trail pass over mountains, through Sequoia National Forest. Overflight confirmed hard-surface and/or graded roads intact to ruts’ jump-off into wilderness. Passable trail led thence into forestlands, over mountains. Barely discernible as break in solid forest cover, through which could observe ground here, there; verify no landslides, earthquake damage existed on scale likely to block rig.
Intended to follow, inspect tracks until fuel limitations necessitated turning back. Never got that far.
Lacked probably 15 minutes of turnaround point when engine went sour. One moment howling merrily, as good ex-motorcycle engine should; next moment sputtering, tachometer dropping toward idle; total shutdown threatening, imminent.
Until then reveling in sheer joy of flight (“O bliss!”); mindlessly wallowing in freedom of motion, endless visibility. Occasionally essayed snap roll, or some other aerobatic excess, just for fun of it. Having wonderful time, with never a thought toward potential consequences of mechanical failure.
Sudden power loss restored focus on reality. Jarringly so. Nothing in sight to raise hopes for safe emergency landing: Nothing but endless sea of conical treetops stretching uninterrupted every direction to mountainous horizon and beyond.
Abruptly conscious of chill fingers tickling pit of stomach.
Cut back power immediately. Knew from lawn mower, outboard motor experience: Sometimes possible to keep distressed engine running by nursing throttle; often continues operation under partial load, even though won’t take max or cruise settings.
Relieved to note similar response from ultralight engine: Exhaust note smoothed out as revs dropped. Quickly edged throttle forward again, feeling for critical setting. And found it…
Lower than hoped, well below point at which altitude maintainable.
Felt cold fingers tighten grip on liver lights.
Fiddled with throttle again, trying to learn more about problem. Soon assembled picture: While only about quarter throttle available for sustained use, could get as much as five seconds’ full power or about 15-18 seconds at minimum cruise after idling just shy of full minute.
But positively engine’s best offer. Increasing idle time produced no further change in power-on duration.
Even as explored parameters of problem, already on radio, alerting Adam; banking, searching for mapworthy, recognizable landmarks. Relevant chart section sandwiched between sheets of plexiglass these days (Adam so clever), mounted to fuselage tubing over knees, edge-on to slipstream. Took only seconds to match peaks in vicinity with those on chart, pass on bearings by radio.
Adam acknowledging, reading back coordinates, when voice, already weak from distance, faded entirely as I dropped below mountaintops.
Well, would have been nice to have company on way down; feeling pretty lonely just then. But upcoming forced landing promised to demand full attention; likely too busy for idle conversation anyway: Terrain below really rugged; nothing visible but solid treetops as far as eye could see — emphasis on “solid.”
Unbidden, characteristics of forest’s namesake came to mind: Have heard sequoias described as industrial-grade redwoods. Plus saw photograph of General Grant tree in old set of Time-Life books Daddy kept around house: 260-odd feet high, trunk alone 40 feet in diameter — considered only “pretty big” by local standards.
Debated chances of achieving successful treetop landing. But already apparent, even at this altitude, that big trees’ foliage skimpy in proportion to overall bulk; also that major limbs thick, visibly unyielding. Attempting to find, manage touchdown amidst, branches springy enough to absorb impact without damage to self, yet strong enough to trap airframe, hold tightly, prevent fall to forest floor, surely constituted unreasonable demand on luck. And failure meant long fall.
Barely 500 feet above tallest treetops when spotted opening through foliage. Not big hole, but ultralight wingspan only 25 feet; maybe big enough.
(Not that ducking through hole automatically eliminated risks. In fact, only in sequoia forest could question arise at all; trees much too close together in normal woods even to think about trying to dodge between, around trunks long enough to reach ground intact. No idea what might find down there; from this altitude, in bright sunlight, details invisible in shadow.)
But losing altitude steadily; decision imminent, clearly of either/or nature. Would have to make up mind. Soon.
Question proved self-answering: Once down at treetop level, true scale, scarcity of limbs, evident. Successful landing in those branches not question of mere luck; would take no-holds-barred miracle.
With decision made for me, turned full attention to opening. Down this close, could make out some details with certainty — and news not all bad!
Portal lay probably 150, 200 feet below treetops, at bottom of chimney created by missing foliage, broken limbs. Horizontal clearance inside shaft limited to perhaps 100 feet in tight spots, but usually more. Hole itself about 50 feet across, roughly circular; framed by lowest tier of branches projecting from surrounding trees.
Pretty close quarters, even at ultralight’s minimum controllable speeds (22-knot level-flight stall), but not impossible.
Enough woolgathering; moment of truth at hand.
Tried to ignore damp palms, suddenly racing heart; set up short-field landing configuration: Carb heat on, engine back to idle, flaperons full down in maximum drag/lift setting, nose-up trim (extra tug on harness, helmet chin strap). Turned radio volume all the way down to eliminate possibly distracting static.
Slowed to 30 knots; eased into spiral, radius dictated by trees’ spacing; alert for preliminary aerodynamic buffeting, warning of incipient accelerated stall induced by steep turn’s gee forces (even experienced pilots occasionally trapped that way). Then in shaft, committed to descent.
Hard to tell, as trees rose on all sides, whether sink-rate really gentle as felt (or perhaps time-sense perception again listening to own drummer) but seemed to take forever.
Tried to divide attention as descended: Vital not to allow hitherto-unnoticed projecting branch to snag wingtip; but also needed to see what lay below, catch earliest possible glimpse of conditions below foliage. But shadowed details still undiscernible; would have to wait, see; rely upon native resourcefulness, inborn determination, vaunted H. post hominem reflexes — plus yeoman-caliber assistance from old friend Luck.
Cracked throttle briefly about halfway down to clear spark plugs of potential fouling after long minutes’ idling (Adam says two-strokes touchy that way); then again about 30 feet above opening itself to provide moment’s crisper response to controls: Necessary for final steeply banked turn, dive-and-duck squeeze through shaft’s narrow bottom.
Plunge from early midday sunlight into relative gloom beneath foliage precipitated only momentary pupil accommodation crisis, but blindness persisted long enough to supply genuinely ugly thrill before vision returned.
Looked around quickly; simultaneously raised flaperons to 50 percent, reducing aerodynamic braking effect without substantially affecting lift. Also brought power back up to maximum available. Amounted to maybe 25 percent, but not complaining; appreciated every little bit: Even partial throttle improved glide characteristics; and every second remained airborne boosted odds on spotting safe landing site.
But not encouraging picture: Beyond small glade in which found self, dimly green-lit cavern beneath foliage extended out of sight in all directions; roof supported by massive columns, fairly regularly spaced; most closer together than would prefer under circumstances; by and large offering just about enough room for ultralight’s passage. Alert, skilled pilot might stave off disaster for several whole minutes before inevitable caught up. Dyed-in-wool ultralight freak probably wax ecstatic over challenge.
And welcome to it! Own interests much simpler, more basic: Just wanted to get down in one piece — and immediate outlook less than reassuring: Lesser trees obscured forest floor between sequoias, plus intermittent underbrush furnished dense ground cover.
Became, therefore, engrossed in feverish search for any approximately level, unobstructed surface on which stood remote chance of setting down relatively intact before unwinding altimeter closed off debate.
Search not instantly productive. Nothing visible beyond what already described. Nothing anywhere but vast, unyielding sequoia trunks above; smaller trees, bushes below, all capable of snatching fragile plane from air, smashing to ground out of control.
Finally looked straight down and — behold! — Heaven-sent solution…!
If pilot enough to bring off.
(Heaven apparently not big on sweeping, all-encompassing fixes. Maybe concerned that doing too much for supplicant erodes self-respect, destroys incentive, is somehow demeaning. Perhaps. But at that moment trading self-respect for tangible assistance would have seemed bargain.)
Hole through which descended, plus clearing, both created when enormous sequoia toppled sometime in recent past. Carcass sprawled along ground for hundred yards, splintering smaller trees, crushing other vegetation beneath incredible bulk. Resultant clearing possibly 100 feet wide at crown end, 50 at root.
Trunk diameter uniformly at least 35 feet from base halfway to top; first 150 feet unobstructed by branches. If could line up approach, would be ample room to land flying flea on fallen giant’s curved upper surface…
If could line up approach:
Room to circle available in widest portion of clearing only: over crown, lowest, most massive branches of which projected upward, blocking glide path to trunk from that direction. Impossible to descend steeply enough after clearing branches without building up prohibitive velocity before touchdown. Never get stopped before colliding with gnarled roots.
However, to land other way along huge log required approach from out amidst trees: First entering forest, completing 180-degree turn amongst Brobdingnagian sequoia trunks, reentering glade on final — all without becoming oversize bugspot on tree trunk…
Hoped Adam would take good care of Terry.
Well, no point dwelling on possible unpleasant side effects; obviously only solution at hand.
Eyeball reconnaissance, strategy review, subsequent conclusion, occupied only couple plane lengths after clearing opening; greenery still almost in reach overhead as juggled what probably would be last relatively unhurried decision before reaching ground: Selection of left- or right-hand approach pattern — euphemistic description of brief-but-agonized nail-biting over where trees more closely spaced.
Bore off toward monster tree’s root end. Intended to set up basic 180-degree approach. Hard to beat for simplicity, plus should minimize exposure time in forest. Would parallel log; penetrate forest just far enough to execute 180-degree turn; emerge from trees on final, right over root end, ready for flare-out, touchdown, routine quick stop.
Debated briefly, unhappily, before settling on airspeed of 35 knots, 13 over normal stall. Would have proceeded even more deliberately if had druthers; but cushion essential safeguard against accelerated stall should circumstances require sudden high-gee vertical bank or the like. As well might.
But ought to be all right. Only about twice flat-out running pace, after all; slow enough to permit noting trees as approached, evaluate separation, make deliberate go/no-go decision, take evasive action as necessary. Sure. Probably. (If alternate route accessible.)
Besides, 35 knots efficient airspeed: Optimum glide angle; maximum flying time available before ground intersected glide path. Maybe several whole minutes.
Had time for single deep breath as exited clearing; then learned whole new meaning for word “busy”:
Glided between first two massive columns with room to spare. Bore slightly right to clear still another monolith; then initiated gentle left bank to circle it — when bark-covered wall unexpectedly materialized in path, appearing suddenly from behind one already using as pylon.
Huge trunks separated by 12-15 feet. Barely.
Slammed stick against left stop, then yanked back hard. Craft jerked upright on wingtip, warped violently into turn, structure trembling under gee loading. Skimmed inner tree so closely, wondered briefly why rudder tip didn’t drag. Shot through slot like watermelon seed; then leveled, angling toward wider gap visible ahead.
Considerably lower now, of course. Elementary aerodynamics: Only so much lift produced at given airspeed. Turn increases induced drag, causing speed loss. Lower nose to get speed back, sink-rate increases. Turn steeper, sink faster. Straightforward energy exchange.
High-gee maneuvers grossly wasteful. Couple more episodes like that, find self on ground ahead of schedule.
Plus noted compass now useless: Violent maneuvers had it spinning merrily.
Glided straight ahead between two other trunks, watching compass with peripheral vision to see if might stabilize in time. Apparently not; dead-reckoning time for Kamikaze Kid — assuming own orientation not equally scrambled by now, as well could be.
Grazed safely past, between several conveniently placed trees, trying to get headed back toward where thought clearing lay. But before completed turn, had to duck around still another bole.
Suddenly mere passenger: Combat computer spotted impossibly closely-spaced cluster of gargantuan trunks immediately ahead; engaged. Sat helpless; watched as plane…
…stood vertically on left wingtip, tore through left-hander between first two trees, thence instantly — without reversing bank — into subsequent right-hander, pulling negative gees; reversed control inputs coordinating what amounted to inverted turn. Then…
…airframe bucked, buffeted, shuddered on verge of accelerated stall, as sliced left again between two columns so close together that actually felt bump as main gear grazed bark beneath fanny. And…
…emerged on final in clearing, wings level, lined up with log, heading straight for massive roots bulging from lower end — now too low to clear. But…
…throttle already jammed forward, stick back; engine howling deafeningly at full power. Plane ballooned upward several yards, clearing roots by fraction; staggered for timeless instant on brink of stall as engine sputtered again; then stick forward…
And suddenly back in control, easing stick back, yanking flaperons down to full drag/lift position, closing useless throttle, flaring out, feeling pounding as wheels bounced on rough, corrugated bark paving log’s upper surface. Braked to stop in matter of feet. Killed engine.
Silence echoed through forest.
Sat unmoving for indeterminate span, blinking fast, breathing hard, disbelieving.
Reviewed past 30 seconds’ events; speculated odds on anyone surviving. Concluded never find room to write all those zeros.
And suddenly in grip of giggles: Terry would have loved wild ride. Could almost feel manic twin clutching shoulder as careened amongst sequoia trunks, inches from disaster. Would be crouched, wings half-spread, bobbing head, yelling, “Wheeee-e-e…!”
Giggles intensified; shortly indistinguishable from hysteria. Shakes set in soon after. Quite some time before able to unlock quick-release buckle, shrug off harness. First attempt at standing garnered predictable results: Jell-O knees not useful when planning serious legwork.
Decided better deal with physical, emotional condition first:
Removed helmet. Extracted canteen from emergency knapsack mounted behind seat. Poured water on head, shook excess from hair, mopped face with sleeve. Leaned back against seat, closed eyes, took deep breath, held, released slowly. Triggered relaxation sequence; felt body gradually unwind as emotions subsided.
Sat for long moments with eyes shut, breathing regularly. Then opened, looked around.
And fought off momentary resurgence of hysteria. Time-Life photos failed to communicate how big sequoias are. Scale of surroundings distorted reality: They looked normal; I felt small. No one could stand in clearing without reevaluating own importance in Scheme of Things. Example: Can walk better than ten feet laterally from centerline on top of log before encountering important grade — log, for Heaven’s sake…!
And looking up… Opening through foliage almost vanishes in distance, against background. Nobody, viewing this scene, would believe airplane gotten in here via own wings! Even miniature airplane. (Almost don’t believe it myself — combat computer one hot pilot…!)
Okay, enough awe, philosophy; places to go, things to do, people to meet. Stranded by sick engine nearly 100 miles from anywhere, with lightweight minimum of supplies, tools — and no mechanical background. (How’s that for promising scenario…?)
Looked around, evaluating surroundings with eye toward eventual departure. Quickly apparent that, while probably no more fun than arrival, flying out possible, assuming can get engine running: Ultralight designed for passenger weighing 250 pounds maximum; own weight a third that. Resultant angle-, rate-of-climb far better than manufacturer’s specifications. No problem anticipated climbing back to, through opening in greenery overhead, ascending chimney beyond to open sky.
Takeoff, however, potentially every bit as hairy as landing; reasons identical: Have to launch into forest, return; then circle wide end of glade, spiral up to, through opening.
Only “into forest” part gives pause. Done that already, thank you.
Return trip bound to be less thrilling, though. Ample time to scout route first; won’t be improvising second by second.
But no point worrying now. Becomes consideration only after manage to fix engine…
And background or no background, logic (and time spent looking over Adam’s shoulder [lectures almost as compulsively as Daddy]) dictates infernal combustion engine operation dependent on three primary requirements: gasoline, oxygen, spark. As side issue, need correct gas-air mixture. Spark timing critical also.
No, too basic; engine runs fine — but loses oomph after few seconds’ brisk operation. Now what easy-to-find, easy-to-repair-without-tools-or-specialized-knowledge failure could cause that?
(Sure better be something like that; only class of problem falling within expertise. Otherwise might as well be total.)
Pushed plane along trunk with some difficulty due to rough bark. Arrived at first tier of branches; turned ship about, nose toward roots. Employed light nylon line included in emergency kit to effect tiedown, using branches as anchor.
Yanked pull-cord. Came out by roots. Said bad word. Then prop-started engine gingerly — first time ever handled propeller with ignition on. Uncomfortable sensation: like violating parents’ warning about sticking fingers in electric fan.
Ran up, timed failure. First try produced full-throttle run of almost 20 seconds; then held consistently at five through five more tests.
Good; at least failure mode consistent. Nothing worse than trying to diagnose intermittent problem.
Now all had to do was figure out why…
Shut down engine again. Then realized had forgotten acoustical earplugs; Adam not kidding when remarked unprotected flight left him half-deaf. Exhaust note even louder, standing next to craft, than when flying; helmet offers degree of protection, plus some noise carried away by slipstream. Curious sensation: Yelled experimentally; felt voice in throat, but almost inaudible via ears.
Not particularly worried. Deafness following loud noises usually temporary; results when ears’ defenses cut in: Short-term paralysis of ossicles insulates inner ear from overload. Hearing probably return to normal soon if not further abused. (Of course, repeated exposure results in permanent loss, as rock concert aficionados often learned in past. Resolved to use earplugs faithfully hence.) Besides, even if permanent, deafness not treatable here, now. So ignored it; had other problems. Stared at engine, thought.
Problem with troubleshooting two-strokes is are so simple. Too simple: two pistons, two connecting rods, one crankshaft. Five moving parts. What can go wrong…? (Also had solid-state ignition, but if problem lay there — never mind…)
Ran through obvious rituals first: Replaced spark plugs (new this morning; unlikely to blame); checked for loose spark lead, condenser wire; clogged fuel pump, carburetor screens, etc.
Inserted earplugs, restarted engine, ran up, confirmed problem still present. Shut down, glared impotently.
Think: What demand increases with power setting? Gasoline, of course. Well, how about partially blocked fuel line? Perhaps allowing sufficient flow for lower output but starving engine above certain point? Sounded promising; theoretical failure matched real-life symptoms.
But how to test without wasting fuel? Certainly shouldn’t dribble on log. Nearly half gone when problem arose; none to spare.
Thought for moment; weighed priorities. Surroundings’ appearance suggested no dearth of water in area. Okay. Uncapped canteen, inverted, propped up; turned attention to fuel line.
Required strong fingers: Secured by stiff spring clips. Once clips removed, engine end came off without too much difficulty. Canteen empty by then so held line over opening, let flow.
Almost abandoned investigation before fairly begun; flow strong, steady, clearly adequate. But already invested water in experiment; might as well follow through. Continued, watching closely.
Bingo…! At ten-second mark flow suddenly dropped to trickle.
Smug thrill of triumph, self-satisfaction coursed through soul: So there, Adam — experience not everything; logic works, too…!
Okay, now problem isolating cause of blockage. Probably something floating around inside tank. Anything big enough to block outlet surely visible to naked eye.
Momentarily plugged line with fingertip. Unscrewed fuel cap with other hand…
Tank hissed as cap loosened, like vacuum-packed jar. Detected immediate fuel-pressure increase against fingertip.
No — couldn’t be that simple! Or could it…?
Reinstalled fuel line on carburetor inlet. Poured fuel trapped in canteen back into tank (all but last drop, lest any water remain).
Removed cap all the way, peered down inside tank. Inlet four inches across; tank nicely crafted, bright light-alloy cylinder: Entire bottom visible if moved head around. And, as suspected, absolutely clean; nothing but gas/oil two-stroke mixture.
Then turned attention to cap. Was indeed vented, but cleverly so: intricate compound-leverage float-and-counterweight valve designed to plug breather during brief negative gees. Observed valve closely as inverted cap, then turned upright.
And there it was, big as life! Valve remained in closed position, sealing vent tightly. Textbook physics demonstration: Fuel not replaced by air as used; resultant vacuum resists further delivery, engine loses power.
Noted, without surprise, country of manufacture: German designers notorious for overengineering, obsession with excess gimmickry. Dieter Heinz, resident madcap mechanic/social critic at small VW dealership back home, possessed in ample measure practical field-worker’s contempt for Ivory-Tower theoreticians; opined most warranty recalls result of factory engineers’ insistence on devising ingenious solutions to nonexistent problems. Referred to resultant debacles as “chooting zemzelves een ze voot.”
Dieter speculated was real explanation of how Nazis lost war. Took particular delight in satirizing defect bulletins, highlighting technical overkill. Remember one in particular:
TO: All Noncommissioned Officers and below.
FROM: Blitzkrieg High Command Quality Control Center.
SUBJECT: Hand-Grenade Repair Bulletin Follow-up.
MESSAGE: In a previous bulletin, ZVP-111000WUB-827-D, it was reported that certain hand grenades manufactured by subcontractor Sturm Drang between 3 June 1943 and 8 October 1943, bearing Serial Numbers 87A000-112498BZQ148 through 87A000-112498BZS157 in one-millimeter-high characters on the inside of the release lever, have detonated in 4.91465 seconds instead of the specified 4.97771 seconds. This variation exceeded manufacturing tolerances.
Bulletin ZVP-111000WUB-827-D described how to correct this defect. However, it has been learned that this bulletin contains a typographical error. If Step 3 is followed as written, hand grenades so modified will detonate in .07331 seconds and could pose a hazard to the user.
All copies of bulletin ZVP-111000WUB-827-D must be corrected as follows: In Step 3, the word “left” in the third line should be deleted and the word “right” inserted. If the corrected instructions are followed properly, the hand grenades will perform satisfactorily.
However, if any hand grenades are observed to detonate in .07331 seconds, even after being correctly modified, safety pins and release levers of such hand grenades must be returned to Blitzkrieg Warranty Center. Upon receipt of safety pins and release levers, together with Quality Control Follow-up Report Forms filled out correctly, credit will be issued. Credit will not be issued if forms are filled out incorrectly.
Dieter posted above on service-department bulletin board during scheduled zone man inspection. Zone man German-born, -raised; ex-Reichwehr foot soldier. Was reported unamused.
And, as studied mechanism further, found was not all that amused myself. Simple reverse-acting needle/seat float valve would have done job without failure-prone complications.
However, Adam says he never met gadget too complicated for Shadetree Engineering fix. Secret usually is big-enough hammer. Or in this case pliers: Held breather open with fingers; mashed, mangled clever device until couldn’t move again even if received Summons From On High.
Screwed cap down on tank. Placed mouth over vent, blew; felt, heard air hiss through opening.
Prop-started engine again. Advanced throttle to full, timed run with wristwatch. Two minutes later still going strong.
Then, to satisfy scientific curiosity, placed finger over cap vent hole — stumbles set in hardly 20 seconds later. Released, engine ran smoothly again.
Men have hung on flimsier evidence.
Okay. Engine fixed; now to get out of here. First step: Reconnoiter takeoff route. Roomy, undramatic takeoff route.
Selected root leading downward from log’s base; employed to reach ground. Spent hours surveying loop from log into forest and return, plotting safe course. Took no chances: Manufactured wingspan go/no-go gauge from sapling; physically verified separation between each pair of trees through which must pass, marked route.
(Sounds as if contemplating major trek through woods. Not so; out and back, shortest possible distance. But hard work, hindered every step by environment. No problem solo, but 25-foot sapling not ideal hiking companion amidst underbrush, smaller trees, etc.)
Finally done. But too late to venture aloft; darkness approaching. Ultralight not equipped for night flying; no lights, rudimentary instruments only. Certain to get lost. Plus landing attempt in dark doesn’t bear thinking about (infrared perception isn’t that good). No choice: Must wait for morning.
Not looking forward to spending night here, but will manage: Made up only moderately uncomfortable bed beneath wing; consists of moss, leaves, etc. C-rations filled belly, though hardly in style to which accustomed — nothing like Adam’s cooking. Located cold, fast-running stream for water. Filled canteen, shook, drained; repeated endlessly until only hint of yummy gasoline flavor remains.
Then sat down to make present update. Which have. That’s where things stand now.
Time to try to get some sleep.
If possible.
Know am acting like fool, jittering like this. Physically verified trees’ separation, marked route clearly. No possibility of getting lost, encountering trees too closely spaced for plane’s passage. Nothing to worry about.
But can’t help it.
Do so hate waiting…!
Oh, Posterity, Posterity…
If get through this without blowing punch line will surely validate claim to histographer’s mantle. So much to tell; so little time…
However. Remember histographer’s creed: Unemotionally, deliberately, chronologically. Therefore:
Woke next morning at sunup, stiff, sore, cold. Night spent curled into fetal position on pile of moss no match for cozy trailer bed, clean sheets, warm blankets. Guess am spoiled.
Hearing back to normal: Ringing gone; could hear birds calling, insects humming, etc. Quite relieved, despite confidence affliction only temporary. Doubt deafness much fun — besides, countersurvival: What if failed to hear immigrant carnivore’s approach?
Stumbled down from log to stream; sloshed water on face, shrieking, gasping, sputtering in reaction — couldn’t have been warmer than 33 degrees! Did clear away cobwebs…
Performed morning elimination. (Amazing how few people grasp importance of emptying bladder, bowel, before risking possible injury. Daddy occasionally served as trackside physician for local quarter-mile stock-car racers. Pet peeve was heroes who, despite oft-repeated warnings, started race without first making personal pit stop. Lost count of those whose only injury following minor shunt was ruptured bladder, bowel. Daddy often remarked on dearth of repeaters: Burning, urine-filled void between thigh muscles, under skin, and/or peritonitis, both followed by otherwise unnecessary surgery, quite educational.)
Performed abbreviated kata to loosen up musculature, hone reflexes; followed by scant breakfast of C-rations.
Then was time. Removed tiedowns; coiled, stowed line; resecured emergency kit behind seat.
Inserted earplugs; pulled on helmet. Started engine, settled in seat, fastened harness.
Checked all controls; performed two-minute full-power test; during which relaxed; expanded consciousness, alertness. Combat computer assumed control.
Released brakes. Only peripherally aware of wheels’ pounding over rough bark as ship accelerated.
Lifted nosewheel before 50-foot mark; popped 50 percent flaperons as airspeed hit 22 knots. Total takeoff roll less than 75 feet. Zeroed in on first pair of sequoias framing entrance to in/out plunge through forest. Pegged airspeed at 30 knots for best angle-of-climb; watched trunks loom large ahead, pass on either side — then into woods proper, concentrating on remaining centered in premarked corridor.
But no surprises, no stark maneuvering (trees hadn’t moved since yesterday). Pylon dodge’em game without drama this time; plenty of room all the way in, around, back. Emerged from forest already halfway to lowest branches.
Flying level, almost within reach of greenery, by glade’s far end. Performed steeply banked 180; leveled, headed for opening, building speed.
Going almost 60 when yanked back stick, shot up through small opening into chimney. Immediately lowered nose, stabilized airspeed at 35 knots (best rate-of-climb speed also); rolled into endless climbing turn.
Breathed huge sigh of relief as emerged from shaft above treetops — then inexplicably giggled again, wishing Terry were here. Would have enjoyed ride so much, even if less exciting than yesterday. Could almost see twin now, bobbing head, wings half-spread, wearing expression of utter delight. Missed him dreadfully.
Missed Adam, too. And Kim, Lisa. Tora-chan, too.
Missed family.
Climbed toward cruising altitude. Reached for helmet radio switch, intending to try to raise them once above intervening peaks — only to discover already on; batteries stone dead, apparently left on yesterday.
Oh, well. Irritation, not problem.
(But major irritation…)
Settled down on return course. Resisted urge to push throttle to max. Unsure of fuel situation, but knew was tight. Gritted teeth, cut back to efficient minimum cruise.
No sweat; arrived at departure point with fuel to spare — but nobody there…
Landed, looked around for note, clue to whereabouts. Found nothing — fine quandary!
Indulged in moment’s self-pity; then thought matter through: Put self in Adam’s, Kim’s shoes. Of course: Gone to look for me — exactly what would have done were positions reversed.
Well, easily enough solved: Obtain fresh radio batteries, return to area where forced down, fly around until family notices, switches on own radio (surely will; exhaust note probably audible for five-mile radius). Once in contact, arrange location to meet.
Okay, problem solved.
Restarted again, lifted back into air, flying slowly, low. Looked for, found gas station. Buzzed, inspected; apparently in good shape. Landed in street, taxied up apron. Access to station no problem; standing wide open. Rummaged briefly; found hose, pump, couple cans of two-stroke oil. Mixed up formula, refueled.
Located electronics store next. Managed to find carton of appropriate 9-volt radio dry cells, plus tester with which to determine condition. Replaced helmet batteries with best of lot; stuffed extras in pockets.
Stepped outside just in time to feel ground tremble, hear concussion. Looked up, motivated by ancient habit; noted barely visible, fast-moving contrail splitting sky, heading south-southwest. Continued toward ultralight without breaking stride. Donned helmet and…
Contrail?
CONTRAIL…!
Went briefly out of control then, Posterity. Must have. How else to explain certified genius running back, forth in street; dancing up, down; waving, screaming — at aircraft five miles up…
Hysteria ended abruptly as begun: Winds aloft shredding vapor; evidence rapidly dissipating.
Moved quickly; probably set record for ultralight engine start, takeoff, climb-out. Aligned own craft with contrail as cleared ground. Maintained course, watching compass, as continued maximum climb. Needed sufficient altitude to ensure local magnetic anomalies (ferrous accumulations, etc.) not affecting reading.
Five minutes, 3,000 feet later, contrail’s last fleecy wisp lost in distance, heading unchanged.
Leaving Junior Birdwoman again dangling skewered on dilemma’s needle-pointed horns:
Pacific 150-200 miles ahead on present course, according to memory. Unless headed overseas, jet’s destination lay somewhere within three and half hours’ flying time at ultralight’s peak cruise.
But following up would cost at least eight hours’ round trip; add full day to separation from family — cruel to leave Adam, Kim, et al., in doubt, combing sequoia forest, searching for own tattered remains.
On other hand, at least day’s work involved in locating, rejoining them. Even if landed somewhere ahead, jet could be on other side of globe before found family, returned.
(Leadership sure is lonely business sometimes!)
But some decisions easier than others, though not necessarily pleasant: Had to chase jet while trail still warm. Simply no alternative.
So ignored anguished little voice worrying about family; concentrated on course, terrain ahead. For next three and half hours.
Embarrassing, really, how completely by surprise otherwise well-informed person can be taken. Despite own keen interest in things scientific, substantial knowledge of geography, never suspected jet’s destination until loomed out of distance, so huge, size alone misled perspective.
Not until very close did recognition set in. First experienced pang of disappointment as perceived coastline; feared had missed landing site, or perhaps jet continued out over water.
Only after blunt-nosed, moth-shaped silver barnacle — adhering halfway up huge, sharply dome-topped, dark beige tower rearing amidst cluster of even larger structures — caught eye, held it, did I recognize Vandenberg Space Shuttle Launch Complex.
But technical wonders held attention only briefly: Moments later, could discern moving vehicles scurrying about shuttle’s base…
And people…
People everywhere — lots of people…!
Don’t know how managed to land in one piece. Certainly in no condition to fly by then: senses reeling, heart racing, breath coming in sobs, half blinded by tears. Only know that presently ultralight bumped to stop in shadow of monster spaceship.
People converged; helped me off with harness, helmet; pulled me to feet.
Strangers all, but reminded me somehow of Daddy during first moments. Men, women both; mostly young; kindly features, concerned expressions; vital, handsome people.
Hardly anyone uttered intelligible word at first. But no need: Even with everyone laughing, crying, passing me from hug to hug like stuffed toy — never doubted for instant!
Had found AAs…!
Managed, finally, to blubber name in response to inquiry from gentle young Adonis in charge. Reply caused odd metamorphosis to pass across features; stir ripple through crowd.
But recovered quickly. Smiled, said: “Then here’s someone you’ll be happy to see again.”
Felt pair of hands take me by shoulders from behind. Was turned around.
Then looked up — not very far up — into well-remembered, wizened, elflike features. Inexpressible love, joy beamed from dark, slanted, gently mischievous eyes as, streaming tears himself, Teacher said: “Candidia, my child, the sight of you makes an old man…”
Never learned what sight of me did. Voice broke. Teacher enfolded me in arms, held very close.
Whereupon, for very first time in entire life, Candy Smith-Foster — plucky girl adventurer; most promising preadolescent intellect yet discovered amongst Homo post hominem population; youngest ever holder of Sixth Degree Black Belt; resourceful, unstoppable, never-say-die superkid; conqueror of unthinkable odds, who searched out, found AAs across length, breadth of North American continent…
Fainted.
Evening when awoke. Lay in narrow bed, alone in small, tidy, unmistakably “military-looking” room. First thing to greet eyes was note taped to headboard. Stretched comfortably, pulled down, began reading.
From Teacher: apology for startling me; promise to explain everything at tonight’s meeting…
Teacher…! Memory flooded in. Sat bolt upright — in process discovering attire limited to birthday suit — stared at note as if might bite. But how… what…
Saved from further blithering by gentle knock on door.
Pulled sheet up around chin; managed, “C-c-come in.”
Door opened, woman entered. Perhaps 15 years older than self; tall, marvelous figure; carriage bespoke flawlessly fine-trained physique: Moved with unconscious power, effortless grace of panther. Richly glowing dark hair, bangs in front, rest in waist-length ponytail. Startlingly beautiful features radiated intrinsic warmth; currently wore tentative, gently concerned smile. Reminded me of Kim. Liked her on sight. (But would kill to look like that!)
Bundle under arm proved to be my clothes, now clean, dry, neatly folded — badly needed attentions after two exciting, sweaty days.
But sight of completed laundry started wheels turning in head: Must have been out of circulation for several hours minimum; which deduction led to remembering shameful fluttering-ingénue performance upon seeing Teacher; which in turn again recalled incredible shock of seeing Teacher — alive…!
Woman took in expression, posture, paper, trembling hands, all in single glance; correctly evaluated problem. Smile broadened, became infectious grin, as placed clothing on bed. “My guess is that you haven’t had much experience meeting ghosts,” she offered by way of greeting. Scooted bedside chair close; settled in for cozy chat.
“Teacher asked me to apologize for him,” she went on, as I stared blankly. “He knows he gave you quite a shock, and he’s terribly sorry. But he’s been totally immersed in the project, and your arrival so startled him…”
(Quickly bit lip; stifled momentary impulse to burst out in hysterical laughter — she thought he was startled!)
“…and he was so overjoyed to see you, that he forgot, in the excitement of the moment, the impression you must have gotten from the letter he’d left for you with the Tarzan File — at the time, of course, that’s pretty much the impression he had himself.
“I’m Gayle Kinnart, by the way,” she continued sociably. “I’m one of Teacher’s official AA guinea pigs. Until you turned up I was one of his prize exhibits.”
Flashed engaging grin, evoking image of mischievous eight-year-old tomboy — then looking nothing like Ph.D.-five-times-over rebel who met American Bar on own turf, stomped into ground in head-on clash before Supreme Court!
“Your test results created quite a stir among our little group,” she added cheerfully. “No one had an explanation for you. Your upbringing wasn’t even close to AA standards; your intellectual development violated all the rules. Of course, Teacher always has said that you never had much use for rules.
“I’m supposed to bring you to the meeting, incidentally. Teacher wanted to be here when you woke up, but he’s so busy…” Expression clouded briefly. “We all are, actually, and time is so short — but Teacher’s been doing the work of five of us. I’m just coming on duty and I promised to bring you along. I gather you just this minute woke up?”
Nodded vaguely. Things moving too fast; having trouble keeping up. Most of all, having trouble focusing on discussion: Single unanswered question kept intruding, clamoring for answer, derailing extraneous thoughts. Took deep breath, stilled emotions long enough to regroup faculties, assemble something resembling coherent thought: “Wait a minute! I didn’t think any Homo sapiens were left; how did Teacher survive?”
Grin returned. “He was more surprised about that than anyone. He was so desperately ill immediately following the attack that he thought for sure he’d contracted the plague along with all the rest of H. sapiens. We all thought so: He certainly had all the symptoms; it seemed the obvious explanation. But you’ll never guess what it turned out to be…”
Gayle paused, eyes dancing. “Food poisoning…!” she marveled. “Not a disease entity at all; merely ingestion of a toxin. To that even we aren’t immune.
“For three days he was hardly able to hold up his head — and of course he still insisted upon working nonstop, expecting to run out of time any second. We did our best, of course, treating him, trying to make his final hours comfortable. But we were as amazed as he was when he started to show improvement.
“Peter’s the one who figured it out. Teacher had been at it for about 80 consecutive hours by then; and he was a little punchy, muttering to himself as he worked, wondering what on Earth was keeping him alive. Peter looked up from his own console, did sort of a double take, stared thoughtfully for a moment, then asked him if he’d ever been hominem-screened himself.
“I was there, and I’ll never forget the sight of Teacher’s face at that moment. Can you believe that, after working on the hominem study for close to 30 years, it never once occurred to him to wonder why he’d never been sick himself?” Gayle had nice laugh; reminded me of Momma Foster’s.
“It was difficult, as busy as we all are, managing to squeeze in time to run even a few preliminary tests, but they all turned out positive. Which weakens the case for the 1918-19 flu pandemic theory, though surely that bug has been around, in isolated cases, for… ”
Interrupting is rude, I know. But with gun at head couldn’t have held tongue just then. Obvious which direction explanation heading even at outset; mind already racing ahead, remembering someone else whom had never seen, heard of, being sick: “If Teacher’s one of us, how about Daddy? You know, Dr. Foster — is he here? Has anybody heard anything from him? Could he be…” Voice trailed off at Gayle’s expression.
“I’m sorry, Candy. No one I’ve talked with has seen or heard of Dr. Foster since about two hours before the attack. He was at the Pentagon. And they used surface-targeted missiles on Washington, you know.”
I nodded. Hadn’t really expected. Just hoped.
And still hoped, dammitall! Daddy much too smart to get caught like that, with everybody expecting attack from moment to moment. Two hours ample time to get out of range. Just matter of finding him. If alive. As well might be. As very well might be.
And is — I knew it! Would find him. Someday. Somewhere. Somehow…
“I hope you do find him, Candy,” Gayle said softly. “I haven’t given up hope either. My fiancé was at that conference. But there hasn’t been time…”
Decided to change subject: Can’t dwell on Daddy’s possible fate without emotional complications; and Gayle’s expression betrayed need for distraction as well. Besides, consumed by curiosity enough to get dozen Elephant’s Children in trouble — and Gayle’s apparent ability to answer unasked questions seemed good place to start digging.
“No, I’m not reading your mind,” she assured me as I stared open-mouthed — again before could ask.
(Well, if she said so, all right. But dandy imitation; downright spooky.)
Gayle explained: Observation of unconscious facial, body muscle patterns a longtime hobby. Founded in, extension of, so-called “body language” beloved of popular-psychology cultists of earlier day; results more reliable, accurate. Indeed, not mind reader; muscle reader: astute observer of subtle clues.
Threw back covers, jumped from bed into shower, turned on. And as scrubbed at two days’ accumulated grime, raised voice to be heard above water’s drumming: “What are you all doing here? What’s going on? That message we found at Harpers’ mentioned something about a continuing problem, and led us to Palomar…”
“What message…?” Gayle’s voice suddenly so sharp that I jumped. Face appeared over shower-stall door, white as proverbial sheet.
No idea what triggered panic; but related search of Harpers’ offices in Baltimore, discovery of computer-to-computer message fragment from Teacher notifying of AA assembly at secret hideaway, containing vague mention of Palomar.
Gayle listened intently, without interruption; then said, still almost fiercely, “Where is it now? Did you bring it with you when you left the office?”
Thought briefly as emerged from shower, plied towel. At first couldn’t remember; finally recalled stuffing into pocket when left office. Probably still at Adam’s parents’ house, or somewhere in van, trailer. Gayle’s relief almost palpable.
Fixed her then with what hoped resembled gimlet eye; suggested she brief me. Obvious from her reaction: Something scary afoot. Bad joke if somehow I knew something vital, perhaps learned by accident on travels, failed to pass on to proper person through ignorance of relevance.
Gayle eyed me appraisingly. Appeared to think it over; then nodded. “You’re right,” she said slowly. “But ‘scary’ isn’t the word. ‘Nightmare’ is more like it:
“Those friendly, fun-loving folks who brought us the End of the World didn’t expect to lose the war. They planned carefully. Over a course of many years they conducted thorough intelligence studies of America and every other military power of any consequence. By the time they struck, they were confident that they had allowed for every contingency.
“Fanatics in the truest sense of the word, they could hardly conceive of the possibility of failure. But even that minuscule chance was unacceptable; they couldn’t stand the thought of someone else winning — even if they lost. So they laid in some ‘insurance,’ just in case.”
Gayle shuddered; but recounted facts quickly, efficiently, without omission, exaggeration, as I dressed.
And if anything, “nightmare” understated proposition: Even in nightmare would have difficulty envisioning people fanatic enough to carry out murder on such a scale. And to conceive so implacable a revenge after own deaths would require thought processes far removed from anything heretofore recognized as human.
Aggressors known as Bratstvo (translating as “Brotherhood”): select cadre of ideological zealots recruited from all over behind Iron/Bamboo curtains; cabal pervading bureaucratic/military hierarchies at highest levels, using governmental resources for own purposes. Fanatics all, dedicated to proposition that ideologically pure, totalitarian communism destined to achieve unopposed sway throughout world. Scorned as ideologically lax even limited wrong-mindedness, free expression, capitalist ambitions tolerated by own governments. Regarded established methods of achieving objective — subjugation through propaganda, sabotage, terrorism, military force, etc. — as soft-headed, inefficient. Hit upon notion of cleansing planet of unbelievers in single bold stroke; starting afresh, without competition.
Would have worked, too, but for unanticipated effectiveness of Free World’s intelligence agencies (enhanced, unbeknownst even U.S. leaders, by AAs’ subtle contributions — in which effort Teacher prime mover!); plus unexpected targeting accuracy, sheer firepower contained in retaliatory arsenal. Bratstvo’s headquarters designed, constructed, anticipated proof against even direct, near-direct hits — but not so many; became 40-mile-wide, 15-mile-deep crater; all outlying facilities vaporized as well. Cleanup, according to satellite reports, total. Many targets still glowing.
But same Free World authorities who refused to believe zealots’ ultimate goal elimination of everyone not sharing beliefs, until warheads, plague, exploded across planet, also discounted AAs’ evidence of contingency plan; took no steps to gather up loose ends.
Leaving fledgling hominem population with problem: Parked heretofore unnoticed in geosynchronous orbit over central Asia is Doomsday Machine, strontium-90 bomb, programmed to commence reentry upon failing to receive periodic coded signal — next of which due in 11 days; frequency, content known only to long-dead fanatics.
Big strontium-90 bomb: genuine multi-ziloton planet-wrecker, if intelligence reports correct; explosion comparable to asteroid impact. Targeted for deep waters overlying Murray Fracture Zone, 700 miles west-southwest of San Francisco. Programmed to sink to ocean floor before detonating.
Blast effects threefold: First, will puncture Earth’s crust like balloon (less than three miles thick at that point), sending massive lava tsunamis radiating out across upper mantle’s molten surface, cracking tectonic plates, resulting in catastrophic worldwide seismic convulsions. Accompanying seawater tsunamis, though hundreds of feet in height, of negligible significance by comparison.
Second, will hurl uncountable cubic miles of vaporized sea water, mud, rock into stratosphere, where will circulate with planetary atmospheric convection, showering strontium-90 fallout first across North American continent, eventually whole world.
Strontium 90’s half-life 29 years — if bomb not stopped, Earth uninhabitable by unprotected humans for something like next two centuries!
Finally, resultant atmospheric pollution will trigger real-life Fimbulwinter, destroy what little may remain of biosphere.
“But the Bratstvo were no slouches at intelligence work either; it was even money that they knew as much about us as we did about them. We had to assume that they had traced back along our intelligence line and knew where most of us lived and worked.
“We also had to assume that they would have operatives here during the attack to try to ferret out our plans — suicides, possibly; or, perhaps more probable, they might have succeeded in concealing the fact that they had a vaccine for the lethal virus. In either case, they would have searched our homes and offices as soon as we left and couldn’t have missed that message.
“We normally destroyed such communications immediately after reading them; and I doubt if any of the Harpers would be guilty of such a basic oversight. More likely, the computer somehow retained it and burped part of it back up, due to the electromagnetic side effects of all those bombs going off at once.
“We expected terrific electromagnetic pulse effects, and had our stuff well shielded against it. But their catalytic warheads emitted in a peculiar region of the spectrum and generated hardly any normal EMP at all; that’s why utilities and so forth continued to work for a while afterward. But they did generate something; and whatever it was, it had an interesting, if temporary, effect on some computers.
“But if Bratstvo agents had found that message, the destination alone would have enabled them to deduce our plans. They would have been able, during the initial confusion, to beat us to the launch centers and sabotage the shuttles, which would have ended our hopes for good.”
“Well, apparently they didn’t see it,” I observed; “or there weren’t any agents after all. Anyway, now I see why you almost jumped out of your skin when I mentioned finding it.
“Meanwhile, you said ‘shuttles’? What are we doing about the bomb?” Spoke without thinking; without considering relative ages, backgrounds, educations; participation, contributions to date. But Gayle registered, accepted “we” in spirit offered; no hint of condescension.
“Once we learned what they’d done, we started laying plans of our own,” she said thoughtfully, as I finished dressing, followed from room, down corridor, outside. “We pooled our money — there turned out to be quite a lot of it — and built a large, totally self-contained shelter complex in a salt mine located in a theoretically seismically-stable area in Kansas. But we needed to ride out the attack close enough to JPL and Vandenberg to protect those facilities from looting and/or vandalism, so we built a smaller shelter under Mount Palomar. It’s nowhere near as geologically stable, but we weren’t expecting much in the way of earthquakes unless we aren’t able to stop the bomb — in which event, of course, we don’t know if even the Kansas shelter will hold up.”
“Why did you need to be close to JPL and Vandenberg?” I prodded.
“Patience; I’m coming to that.
“Both shelters are well concealed and very heavily shielded. We were as concerned about stray outbound radiation, which might give our positions away, as we were about incoming hard stuff from bursts and fallout. You wouldn’t have found the Palomar shelter unaided.
“We also organized a plan to find and qualify surviving hominems as quickly as possible as to mental and emotional stability and useful skills. Radiation levels dropped to safe levels within a week after the attack, and H. sapiens were gone, so we went to work.
“In the course of only two or three months we found and enlisted over a thousand people. We were pleased to learn that, in practice, general-population hominems turned out to be only about 20 percent unstable. The rest are hard to tell from AAs: likable, well-adjusted, intelligent, highly motivated overachievers. Quite a few of even the minority are all right, given a challenge and intelligent supervision.
“Of course we ended up with many more than we anticipated, and we don’t have room for them all in the shelters. If we can’t stop the bomb, we’ll face some difficult decisions or, more probably, decide who goes into the shelters with a lottery.”
“I’m going to hold my breath until you get to the point,” I warned.
Gayle smiled. “Your original question was, ‘What are we doing about the bomb?’ Happily, some 30 or so of us — the expanded us, not just the AAs — were key NASA people. I say ‘happily’ because our only hope of escaping two centuries of underground living — assuming we survive the earthquakes — is to launch the Nathan Hale…” We rounded corner and Gayle indicated monstrous assembly poised on pad with casual wave surely more appropriate for discussing weather than H. sapiens’ ultimate technological achievement. “…rendezvous with the bomb in orbit, and deactivate it.”
(Something in statement tugged fretfully at psyche, but instantly forgotten in rush of amazement over scale of plan.)
Briefly reinforced hoary, naïve-ruralite stereotypes by stopping abruptly, gawking openmouthed in unfeigned wonder at monstrous spacecraft looming overhead. Television doesn’t come close to conveying scale. Bigger close-up than appears on tube. Lots.
Proximity to technological marvel stimulated imagination, triggered inspiration; conceived possible solution, far less complicated: “Gayle, if you can launch a shuttle, why not send up a big thermonuclear ICBM — oh…” Realized, even as spoke, couldn’t be that easy, or already fait accompli.
Gayle apparently still reading mind — or whatever — nodded approvingly as reached proper conclusion. “The Bratstvo thought of that and took precautions. First, the entire vehicle in which the bomb is housed is constructed of a new lightweight, long-molecule material that seems to be sort of a metallic polymer.
“Becky Chamberlin, one of our best metallurgists — plastics are her second love — had a chance to play with a sample shortly before the attack. She says it’s so strong and such a fabulous insulator that, in space, that bomb could probably ride out a multimegaton, near-direct hit without damage — depending on how well the components are packaged, of course.
“But it doesn’t have to; it mounts quite capable defenses: the latest analytical radar, a sophisticated computer, and lasers capable of destroying any missile long before it gets close enough to constitute a threat. Finally, it’s programmed to initiate reentry the moment it’s attacked.”
“How did we get the sample?”
“One of our number was a quadruple agent…” Gayle paused, noting blank expression; elaborated: “One of us, pretending to them to pretend to us to work for us while actually spying on them as well as a fourth party — got that?”
“This spy business sounds unprincipled, deceitful, and entirely too complicated,” I replied with mock disapproval.
“Of course it is.” She grinned. “That’s the way things were in the old days: All professions cloaked themselves in as much mystery as possible — spies were nowhere near as bad in that respect as, say, real estate appraisers.
“Anyway, Wallace Griffin allowed himself to be recruited by the Bratstvo while he was in Russia, supposedly undergoing training with the KGB for his work in the U.S. Quite a few of the KGB were members, and they were always on the lookout for likely prospects. Wallace is good at his job: While ostensibly helping program the on-board computer, he managed to microfilm the bomb’s entire schematics package — warhead, drive, guidance system, software, and all. He’s the one who brought back the material sample.
“Then, only days before the attack, everything Wallace learned was confirmed when one of the Bratstvo’s people tried unsuccessfully to defect and warn the world. His name is Kyril Svetlanov; he was an inner-circle figure among the fanatics. But his story wasn’t believed any more than ours was; so we took him in, and he’s been helping us ever since. He’s our resident strontium-90 bomb expert: He was involved in its design, construction, and launching, and works harder than anyone here, with the possible exception of Teacher. But that’s understandable: In his place, I wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt!”
Cast sidelong glance at Gayle. Did not appear type to believe in Santa Claus. She noticed, grinned, addressed unspoken doubt: “Yes, we did find it suspicious that a highly placed member of such a fanatical organization should suffer so convenient a change of heart, turning up just when we needed the specific information on which he was a leading expert. But we investigated his story from every possible angle, even interrogating him under drug-augmented, deep hypnosis, and everything checked.
“We’ve assigned him to the bomb deactivation phase of the project. And since then we’ve tested him further: At various times we produced data which we knew was erroneous, and led him to believe that we believed it valid and were going to include it in our planning. They were reasonable errors, of the sort which might have been introduced through faulty translation from Russian or even data missing due to incomplete intelligence-gathering, but which almost certainly would have scuttled us in the end.
“Each time he caught and corrected the mistake. Once, when we insisted that we knew what we were doing, he threw up his hands and was on the point of quitting, stating that we had doomed the project and further effort was pointless. He’s passed every test with flying colors.
“I’ve studied him myself as closely as I know how, and I’ve never spotted even a suggestion that he’s not sincere. And finally, he’s going along on the Hale to make sure everything goes all right, which is in itself pretty convincing evidence of his sincerity and desire to atone. Even so, of course, he’s never alone.”
(That disquieting something nudged psyche again, but still couldn’t put finger on cause.)
Gayle continued as we rounded building’s corner. “You’ll see him at the meeting — there he is now, and here we are,” she finished, pointing out young man as we arrived at meeting site.
Populace assembling in bleachers arranged in semicircle before elevated platform outside launch control center, near huge payload preparation room; everyone present who could be spared even momentarily from duties: numbered in hundreds…
And at stage center was Teacher!
Undignified shriek, run-and-hug, probably disrupted proceedings, if any in progress; but didn’t care, and nobody else seemed to mind — Teacher least of all. Long time before he let go. Finally held me out at arms’ length; scrutinized head to foot. “I think you’re in better shape now than when I last saw you in Wisconsin,” he said approvingly.
Smile wreathed features, eyes sparkled; but strain, fatigue, perhaps even something which might be mistaken for desperation (in anyone besides Teacher) showed in features. And as watched, light died, lines deepened, shoulders sagged.
Voice somber as stated, “I’m astonished that you found us.”
“Just lucky,” I replied. “I was in the right place at the right time. I heard a sonic boom, looked up, and saw a contrail. If I hadn’t run into trouble the day before, we’d have been probably 200 miles from there.”
Teacher looked up thoughtfully, momentarily distracted from problems. “With the whole of the North American continent to search, you ‘just happened’ to see, and be close enough to take advantage of the return of, the first supplies-gathering expedition we’ve sent out in two months, which will be the last for quite some time to come.” Regarded me quizzically. “Coincidence on that scale is difficult to credit, and we hominems are a largely unknown commodity. I wonder where a study of the mechanics of that sort of phenomenon might be commenced, and in what direction it might lead…”
Strain returned to features as Teacher continued. “I had planned to take you with me. But I returned to find you securely locked in your shelter, with both telephone and computer terminal unresponsive — for what reason, I can’t imagine.
“I wanted to tell you in the letter where we were going — where the AAs were going, that is; at the time it did not appear that I would be a lasting consideration — and why. But I could not; I hope you can understand why I could not. The best I could do was introduce you to your heritage and suggest that you start looking for your peers.
“I intended to send someone back to search for you as soon as it became possible, but so far it has not: For an amateur group as small as ours to modify and prepare for launch a shuttle, normally groomed by an army comprising several thousand intensively trained experts, in the time allotted, is no modest task. We have not been able to spare anyone.”
“I guess that answers my next question.” I sighed. “My family — my adopted family — is searching the Sierra Nevadas for my body. I’d like to go find them and bring them here. You can’t spare a crew, maybe with a helicopter…?”
Teacher shook head slowly. “No; I’m sorry. If you can wait until we’ve launched the Hale, then certainly. But that will leave precious little time in which to find and warn them, should the mission fail, won’t it?
“Though…” Teacher’s eyes closed briefly in pain, “…of course in that case they’ll just have to go into the lottery with everyone else. They’ll be among those for whom the question of whether there is room will be decided by chance.
“Mind you,” he added quickly, “the lottery applies only to adults; you children are included automatically.”
Teacher blinked then, as if suddenly remembered whom talking to. “I don’t mean to sound patronizing, Candy. If it should come to that, it boils down to a question of racial survival. We must attempt to save the young and those possessing the knowledge and skills which will improve their chances. Where possible, those with knowledge will be the young. No one in my age bracket, whose skills are duplicated by anyone younger, will be eligible for the drawing.”
Understood that. And mortally ashamed at depth of relief I experienced on learning own place in shelter assured, along with Adam, Lisa.
But what if Kim left out…?
Or Terry! — surely Teacher wouldn’t exclude twin! After all, doesn’t take much room, eats like a…
No. Now neither time nor place for that discussion. Question probably never arise anyway; Hale’s mission surely successful. No benefit to increasing Teacher’s burden prematurely, perhaps unnecessarily.
Immediate problem was locating family. Wanted to get them back here soon as possible; be on hand myself, make limited talents available in any manner planners might deem helpful (as well as family’s talents — Kim’s, Adam’s not nearly so limited).
Only extraneous body in vicinity clearly mine; would have to go myself. Decided to leave first thing in morning. No idea how long search might take, but sitting ducks up there for earthquake, fallout; had to try to get them to AAs’ shelters before scheduled bomb fall, just in case.
Then worry about lottery.
Noticed Teacher looking over crowd; wondered if missed anything while woolgathering. “I think everyone able to attend has arrived. I must call the meeting to order. Why don’t you sit up here with us? There is plenty of room.” Stepped toward podium, gathering notes; cleared throat, switched on mike.
I looked around at stage. Consisted of raised platform some 30 feet wide, ten deep. Easel at stage center, just behind podium, held large presentation board. One end of stage littered with odd-looking machinery.
On ground beyond stood large, complicated sculpture with one curved wall, many convolutions, interior open on side toward crowd. If let imagination wander, could easily have been pie slice from cutaway aircraft mock-up. Or giant 3-D rat maze. Bracing crowded interior; one inside surface covered with projections, knobs, dials, tangles of wiring gathered in messy looms. Looked like awkward place to get around in. Small oblong opening in intermediate wall peeked through at wall to which majority of découpage affixed.
Settled in chair near enigmatic artifact; tried to look inconspicuous. Gayle took seat next to me, smiled reassuringly. Grateful for presence; felt very much out of place.
Teacher opened meeting with brief, forced-sounding pleasantries; then discussed progress to date in preparing Nathan Hale for launch.
(And suddenly identified source of subliminal itch bothering me since Gayle’s first mention of shuttle: Familiar with names of NASA’s shuttles; Nathan Hale not among them. Apparently AAs rechristened. Well, sure; why not? Previous owners unlikely to object. Besides, had heroic sort of ring to it; sounded neat [though not as neat as Enterprise — cheapest of evasions to pretend to honor lobby’s request; then waste name on mock-up intended for glide tests only!].)
Teacher praised collective efforts to date: Group had faced, overcome immense, unprecedented challenges. Among most pressing: Fact that shuttles never intended for geosynchronous orbit work. Designed, constructed as low-orbit ferries, operating no higher than about 700 miles.
But hominems worked miracles: Devised fittings to mount four solid booster rockets in place of usual two. New trick liquid fuel mixture boosted main engine thrust efficiency several critical percent, improved consumption picture. Cargo bay now accommodated huge custom-built orbital maneuvering system tank (much larger than earlier OMS kits).
Ship also lightened substantially; almost gutted, in fact. Everything extraneous to mission ripped out: Air, food, water storage cut down to irreducible minimum. Storage cabinets, noncritical instrumentation, crew’s “amenities” discarded. Landing-gear system removed in toto…
(Good thinking: Shuttle expendable after mission; parachutes adequate for crew.)
Aerodynamic control surfaces permanently locked in neutral; related hydraulics, computers, sensors, control sticks, pedals, etc., gone…
(Goggled when heard that; couldn’t imagine how expected to manage reentry.)
…along with all exterior insulation.
(Say what?)
Calculations showed Nathan Hale now capable of attaining desired orbit.
Just.
Chin dropped; heard own voice involuntarily whisper, “Oh…!” as finally caught on.
Now understood shuttle’s new name: Nathan Hale — “My only regret is that I have but one life…”
One-way trip.
Volunteers all, three-man crew would attempt to reach bomb, disarm…
And die!
Vision blurred. Felt tear start down cheek. Others followed.
Gayle noticed; divined cause. Leaned close, whispered that crew selected from entire population at launch center — every person involved in project volunteered; AAs, ABs alike.
Shook head; tried to envision what must feel like to step forward, with full knowledge of facts; make rational, intelligent, premeditated decision to give life so others might live.
Couldn’t.
Spontaneous, unthinking heroism understandable; bravery in heat of battle, excitement of moment, not uncommon (been known to yield to occasional rash impulse myself); but this — courage required simply defied comprehension…!
Blinked away tears to gaze out over crowd in awe. And as stared, felt unfamiliar stirring: undefinable, comforting. Source eluded identification; but awareness of assemblage somehow expanding, deepening. Vaguely realized was perceiving bond extending beyond present mutual predicament, project, goals. Shared warmth, togetherness almost tangible: Glow slowly pervaded, suffused entire being. Heart swelled, soul thrilled to sudden, absolute knowledge that sapiency’s new standard-bearers well chosen.
Slow tears resumed, but proudly now — my people worthy inheritors. Earth in good hands…
Kyril stood, joined Teacher at board. Regarded him with new awareness, appreciation; understood Gayle’s comment now about how insistence upon inclusion in Hale’s crew lent credence to change of heart, penitence. Tall, handsome man, but wore same dejected air as Teacher.
Unveiled large multiple-overlay transparency cutaway drawing of bomb, missile in which housed. Launched into discussion of vehicle’s weaknesses. Of which, turned out, were damned few!
Equipped with sophisticated computer, detection/analysis equipment; mounted lasers capable of crisping approaching missile like moth in oxyacetylene flame; structurally invulnerable, in practical terms; everything but propulsion nuclear powered — rocket engines conventional, but more efficient: next generation development permitted by new material, capable of ten gees.
Fanatics planned, built well. Doomsday machine no pushover.
But not omnipotent. Planners mortal men. Achilles’ heel of every computer-controlled mechanism is software written by selfsame mortal men, trying to anticipate, cope with hypothetical future problems — forced by memory storage limitations to choose which, amongst whole spectrum, most likely to materialize — determine appropriate responses. Programming limited bomb’s awareness of, response to, stimuli likely to be missiles: high-speed metallic objects exceeding certain mass, approaching within hundred-mile spherical perimeter, whose plotted trajectories come within five miles.
Kyril not personally involved in detection-package development, but opined, from general knowledge of project requirements, that slowly moving men in spacesuits, even if picked up by radar, probably ignored by computer. Probably.
Teacher’s experts, after poring over liberated drawings, software, over period of weeks, in substantial agreement: Components resulting therefrom unlikely to care about indistinct signals returned by small, slow, essentially nonferrous targets.
Therefore, strategy arrived at called for parking Hale safe distance back, proceeding to bomb in spacesuits, using manned maneuvering units; forcing launch service access hatch, entering vehicle; sending robot equipped with TV cameras, powerful waldos, through inner shell hatch (too small for man in spacesuit) to pull plug.
However, project in trouble. Big trouble. Quite possibly insurmountable trouble: Robot development not progressing as anticipated…
“In the months during which we have been working on this problem,” sighed Teacher, shoulders slumped, “we have advanced the field of robotics well beyond the point at which we found it. We have accomplished amazing things; but unfortunately they have not been the amazing things which we set out to accomplish. We are now at a dead end.”
Couldn’t believe ears, eyes! Teacher — sounding, looking, acting as if defeated!
“Which is why we’ve called this meeting,” he continued more resolutely. “We need fresh input and we need it now.
“You all were furnished copies of drawings as you arrived. They depict the attempts we have made so far to come up with a usable design.”
Noticed everyone but self had sheaf of paper. Nudged Gayle, elevated brow. She nodded, passed me extra. Glanced through quickly, noting salient details.
Teacher continued without pause: “The first sheet is a list of design criteria, beginning with the initially limiting factor of the inner shell access hatch size, 9 inches by 14; and going on to detail grip strength required of waldos, forces necessary in push, pull, and torque functions; and drawings of the machine’s anticipated route from the hatch and working environment inside the bomb, illustrating all known handholds and obstructions.
“Those of you with suggestions are asked to come up and view the full-scale mock-up of the bomb’s interior…”
Oh, so that’s what this thing was. Stood quietly, stepped down from stage, compared drawings to replication. Clearly drawn; easily matched up. Curved wall was outer hull, with main access hatch. Tiny inner shell access hatch mounted on next wall in. That bulge indicated warhead location, buried near center of nose cone. There was umbilicus plug, last thing disconnected before launch. On-board computer behind that panel there, etc.
And there, at center of cobweb of wiring, all needing to be removed in correct order first, was detonator, accessible only after squeezing through tiny bottleneck hatch, climbing past maze of structural bracing. Would take boneless, acrobatic midget to get in there in first place.
But disarming didn’t look too complicated: Remove wiring in proper order, unbolt cover, extract shaped charge by seizing shaft ridges, pulling out. And — oh, yeah, shaft/socket tolerances finely machined, snug fit; 400-500 pounds of force required for extraction, twisting as emerges to clear obstructions. Midget better be husky sucker.
Could see problem now: Complicated, overlapping, multiple functions involved in basic task placed heavy demands upon small machine lacking both tactile feedback for operator guidance and joint flexibility of human hands, wrists, elbows, shoulders. Robot’s need to stabilize self while working in weightless environment posed additional problems. As did necessity of finding room for high-resolution, closed-circuit color television camera to enable operators to maneuver unit along tortuous route from hatch to detonator site, carry out assignment.
“No one has ever attempted to extract so many functions from a single machine of such small size,” Teacher went on.
(Certainly believed that!)
“We have managed to duplicate each function called for separately, but have not managed to combine them all in one machine of the requisite size. It is beginning to seem probable that we will not succeed before time runs out: The latest possible launch date is only seven days off; and it would be better not to delay until then, in case we run into last-second glitches.
“I don’t think anyone here misses the implications: This problem must be solved, and within seven days. If our pooled inventiveness fails to come up with a solution by then, our efforts here will have been in vain; we will have no choice but to abandon this work and hasten back to the shelters.
“We all know, however, that the shelters are capable of supporting a maximum of 500 people. A lottery will be held to determine who goes in and who stays out.
“Those remaining outside have virtually no chance of survival: Earthquakes, vulcanically generated airborne toxicity, and fallout will see to that.
“Even the survival of those inside the shelters is questionable, hinging upon whether they emerge from the period of seismic violence sufficiently intact. Our seismologists and engineers hold out little encouragement. In fact, were it not for the fallout and poisonous emissions, it might be safer to attempt to ride it out on the surface.”
Teacher winding down; other speakers queuing up to augment presentation. People already converging on mockup, scanning drawings, examining robots, conversing in muted tones. I resumed seat to keep out of way.
Meeting dragged on for hours. Endless succession of hopefuls approached, put heads together, offered suggestions, argued, compared notes, eventually left, shaking heads. I passed time chatting with Gayle, Teacher too, when neither occupied.
In between, to degree possible without being pushy, I eavesdropped. And of course bent own thoughts to problem at hand. But not mechanical or electrical engineer or programmer — nor much of anything else useful for that matter. Generally kept mouth shut; self out of everyone’s way.
And worried, of course: With room for only 500 people split between two shelters — one even less likely to come through quakes than other — something on order of 6-, 700 people out in cold if mission fails. And beginning to look as if might: Robot problem no closer to solution now than when meeting began.
Wished Adam, Kim here; no idea whether might contribute or not — just missed them. And Lisa. And especially Terry. Even Tora-chan — bet he wouldn’t be allowed in shelters either: Too old; mousing, purring, lap-sitting probably not adjudged “useful skills.” Or if so, possessed by someone younger.
Despairing atmosphere infectious; reinforced own self-pity, worry over family’s, friends’ chances. Gloom deepened as person after person, expert after expert, approached with varying degrees of confidence, gave it best shot, resuming seat shortly thereafter, looking glum. Presently trickle slowed, stopped.
Teacher looked around for more. Expression betrayed depth of disappointment as realized think tank dry. Glanced at Kyril. Russian shrugged, shook head; returned to chair, sat heavily, head hanging.
Teacher rotated slowly, searching faces hopelessly. Our eyes met at exact moment -
Oh! Of course. How… obvious!
Conclusion, decision, accompanying shock, must have shown on face; for Teacher’s thoughts paralleled own, arriving at identical solution merest fraction thereafter. Have never seen anyone look so stricken. For endless seconds old Chinese gazed into, through my soul. Then set jaw, drew himself erect, eyes shining with love, pride, tears. Nodded imperceptibly; watched in silence as I rose jerkily from seat, suddenly nerveless fingers cascading stage with papers, soft-drink can, remaining munchies.
Own slow tears resumed but interfered with vision hardly at all as retrieved diagram, tucked into pocket, stepped down from stage, forced unwilling feet to propel me to mock-up.
Stepped through outer door, strode to tiny inner hatch opening, poked head through, looked around for handholds. Inserted shoulders, first one, then other. Grabbed convenient truss, pulled torso through. Hips, fanny snug fit; harbinger of Better Things To Come (pity will never find out).
Ignored suddenly buzzing audience visible through cutaway’s open side. Wormed way between hull braces to detonator site. Wiring complexity immaterial just then; yanked loose en masse.
Then produced diagram, studied briefly. Positioned self carefully on back, planted feet on either side of detonator shaft. Took firm grip. Drew long breath, released slowly; took another, whispered hysterical-strength tap trigger, and…
…PULLED!
Didn’t even require major effort. Audience gasped as shaft slid easily outward. Shortly encountered obstruction. Experimented, turning one way, then other; pulled again.
Moments later stepped out through cutaway, carrying detonator in one hand. Stunned hush marked progress back to center stage where Teacher waited, tears streaming down wrinkled cheeks. Own tears still flowed but control holding otherwise; breathing almost normal, hands steady.
Carefully set down detonator, stood, put arms around dearest friend. Marveled again how solid he felt, despite years. Held him tightly for long moments; wishing could do something to ease silent convulsions wracking him. But cause obvious, situation inescapable; we both knew it.
Released him, put hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoes, placed kiss on wet cheek.
Stepped to podium, pulled mike down within reach. Felt curiously at peace as looked out over all those people. All my people.
Surprisingly easy to get words out; voice clear, firm, unwavering as took deep breath, said, “Does anybody know how to take in a spacesuit?”
Well, not quite that simple, of course. Even after predictably outraged debate over including 11-year-old in suicide mission faded before dearth of alternate suggestions, practical difficulties remained:
Among which, spacesuit more complicated to “take in” than pair of jeans. Principal challenges: one-piece plastic bubble helmet; neck, waist sealing rings; portable life-support-system package; aluminum frame surrounding chest, hips — all rigid; all products of elaborate engineering, exacting manufacturing procedures; all exceeding 9-by-14 hatch dimensions by substantial margins, even in smallest of three available sizes.
But given no opportunity to follow tailors’ progress; had own problems: Rushed immediately into astronaut training (immediately: that night — only six days remaining in which to master necessary skills).
See: Launch one of mission’s more critical stages; process rife with opportunities for sabotage. Original crew consisted of one seasoned NASA shuttle pilot, one experienced civilian test pilot, one Bratstvo defector. Assigning two most experienced pilots to do flying permitted tactfully glossing over fact that Kyril, still not entirely trusted, was being kept away from vital equipment. My presence unavoidably sundered gentlemanly façade: Minimum personnel boiled down to one pilot, one bomb expert, one husky midget. Retaining original copilot not fuel efficient: only valid criterion.
Which left rosy-cheeked grammar-school refugee (big-time ultralight jockey) sitting in simulator’s right-hand chair, reading off checklists, updating on-board computers, responding to CRTs, flipping switches right and left, watching gauges — trying to ignore fact that eminently qualified engineer/computer-scientist/jet-pilot cooling heels in deactivated mission specialist’s chair just aft: patently so much dead weight.
Bothered me so much at first, finally took Kyril aside at break, planted foot squarely in mouth trying to apologize for being promoted over him. However, Russian promptly set mind at ease, using charming, sideways-fractured social English (love listening to him, though sometimes wonder if deliberate [technical syntax flawless]).
Kyril completely in agreement with assignments as posted; understood hominems’ reservations about sincerity — would insist upon same precautions were positions reversed. Bore absolutely no resentment toward me for “usurping” role, nor anyone else for that matter. Suggested I forget disparity in ages, backgrounds; concentrate on job — predicted would find quite enough to occupy attention without manufacturing needless concerns.
Might have had trouble buying sincerity even then had not he broken off pep talk midword, startled me by impulsively taking my hands in his, expression desperately earnest, saying, “Candy, Harris is being ex-Marine pilot fighter: chubby-hearted, compellsive hero. He goes consequencely he knows he is best; could not be living with himself should mission boom out through flub of one less adequate sitting in his shoes. My justify are resembling: My proficiency of bomb is excelling. And I am at culp.
“But you…” Swept me into brief, intense hug; then released, holding at arms’ length, gazing intensely into eyes. “I am astonish of you! I say without exacerbation: Inside little-girl window-condiment is most prodigal woman have ever had glad accident to meeting.”
Now, emotions running pretty close to surface these days, as can imagine; I vacillate between forced cheerfulness, depths of despair. Naked admiration shining from Kyril’s eyes at that moment far exceeded stimulus threshold necessary to loose floods.
Instead, horrified to detect genuine giggle born deep inside; growing, gaining impetus with each passing second, working inexorable way upward despite every effort to suppress — because didn’t want to laugh: Kyril sure to take wrong — no; there lay problem: Sure to take right; and laughing at accent in class with poking fun at physical defect. Kyril really nice person; last thing wanted to do was hurt feelings. So forced features into rapt, wide-eyed smile; bit lip, tried to weather storm.
But Russian’s enthusiasm still gaining momentum: “I think what I regret most-secondly about this kettle of grubs is not knowing you ten years awayer — hell’s jingles, I would accommodate for meeting you four, even three years subsequentially. What you looking like then isn’t mattering; outside would being old enough for getting to know you without raising flatulent vibes of moral torpitude. Would never want you predicate of false scandal…”
At that, final vestige of restraint popped like soap bubble: Sputtered first, noble intentions to contrary; then whooped uncontrollably, noises moderating thereafter to helpless belly laughing — situation made even funnier somehow by heartfelt guilt over puzzled expression momentarily overspreading Kyril’s face.
But as I held aching ribs, puffing for semblance of restraint, he grinned wickedly, said, “That’s better. To beginning, I despond you turning up to be humorless. And you don’t looking Russian.” Which, of course, added fuel to laughter.
Grin turned to warm smile. “Telling me: Did you really thinking I have noisy intestines over such applesoup as who sits where? We have imperative jobs to do; I do mine, you do yours.”
Then smile faded. Brushed my cheek with gentle fingertips; said tenderly, “But making no misconstruings: I meant exactly how I said: I proudly to being sat alonghind you.”
That did it, of course: Dissolved wetly into Russian’s arms; useless for next 20 minutes.
Been truly frantic week; busy every second. Spent ten hours every day practicing on shuttle simulator, employing hypnotically augmented concentration to absorb duties — greatly reduced, fortunately, from load normally carried by right seat’s occupant, due to elimination of systems, related controls, instruments. But Kyril correct: Still plenty left to keep me out of trouble!
However, shuttle training only part of schedule; followed each day by further drilling: getting to know bomb inside out; acquiring basic smattering of Russian, sufficient command of appropriate software assembly language (turned out both hard-, software started life American), requisite programming skills. And really had to knuckle down; both computerese, Russian lots harder than Pitman shorthand — and so little time!
AAs concluded long ago bomb too dangerous to have around, defused or not. But daren’t risk setting off in orbit. Warhead magnitudes bigger than anything ever detonated on Earth, and strontium 90 really nasty stuff. While preliminary figures suggest only small fraction of fission byproducts likely to make it into atmosphere during next 200 years, sheer volume of output guarantees borderline-hazardous level of fallout. Further, one school of thought amongst AA astrophysicists suggests possibility that blast on that scale could have adverse effect on Van Allen belt.
Wherefore, AAs came up with complicated, but hopefully effective, procedure which should eliminate problem for good, while avoiding side effects. Vehicle’s own awesome power, fuel reserves, form heart of disposal scheme.
Bratstvo anticipated possible need for all-out departure from orbit, minimum-time reentry. Designed, constructed vehicle with ample fuel, power to do job. If attack detected, brakes go on at ten gees. Takes slightly more than 30 seconds to kill orbital velocity, but engines scheduled to operate for full minute, thrust alignment shifting throughout: Acceleration at burn’s conclusion almost straight down; massé shot with only slight easterly vector, producing high-speed cometary graze. Engines fire again just before perigee: Remaining fuel blunts awesome velocity; adjusts speed, course, to dead-center reentry window.
Pointed in proper direction, however, vehicle capable of delta-V boost ample to leave Earth’s gravity well entirely. Which amounts to pretty thorough disposal.
First step is physically disarming warhead (very first step, lest something go awry during succeeding stages; result in unscheduled reentry with live warhead, or, almost as bad, detonation in orbit). Suitcase-sized terminal with liquid-crystal display screen then unfolded, plugged into on-board computer’s umbilicus; ballistics program wiped, new one loaded; engines fire up on schedule, end of problem.
But AAs didn’t feel right about merely pitching ghastly device out into space for someone else to bump into sometime in unguessable future; destination of new ballistics program is Sol’s interior — programmed for dive into sun: When AAs get rid of something, stays got!
(Obviously my people intrinsically tidy bunch: I like that.)
Well, this pretty well wraps up journal, I guess; not a lot more to say. We launch tomorrow morning. Find prospect of shuttle flight thrilling, if narrow perspective sufficiently; view carefully, without thinking beyond.
But made interesting discovery during course of week: Oddly enough, am not afraid to die.
Oh, apprehensive, of course. And perfectly willing to hold off for century or two. But not really, truly, personally frightened of death per se. Not sure why, but true. Perhaps partial consequence of horrendous weeks immediately following attack. Possibly that, coupled with subsequent episodes, has toughened psyche. Maybe fear of death something to which, through repeated exposure, one can acquire degree of immunity.
Don’t know. But thinking back, can remember several previous occasions where prospect of trying something new, unknown, brought on appreciably higher anxiety levels. For instance, present attitude toward death nothing compared to heebie-jeebies briefly inspired by decision to accept Rollo’s bargain. (Never would have admitted it to him, but contemplated prospect of initial session with same enthusiasm as root canal without anesthesia.)
Hmm… Thinking of Rollo makes me wonder if should have said “yes” to Adam. Feel sort of guilty about dying with issue unresolved. Viewed in retrospect — maybe.
Once heard “love” defined as condition in which own happiness dependent upon happiness of other. Makes sense, except literal interpretation covers parent/child, sibling/sibling, etc.; relationships which usually don’t lead to sex. And while feelings toward Adam surely different from those for Daddy…
Hold on there. Oh, really? Adopted father, after all: No genetic bar; no reason shouldn’t. Just never crossed mind before; never viewed Daddy from “female” perspective; never thought of him as “male.”
Perhaps should have gone ahead with Adam. Then at least wouldn’t be dying as virgin (I know, I know — wouldn’t be dying as virgin if went ahead with anybody). But only 11, after all. Had expected to become functional, functioning female in own good time; derive same enjoyment books all prate about — but haven’t wanted to yet, with Adam or anyone else.
(Still don’t, actually.)
But mighty curious, and time running out. Well, too late now — unless perhaps vamp Harris or Kyril (or both?) on way out to rendezvous, or after completing mission, before life-support runs out.
But no, not Harris; regards me as likely prospect for sainthood. Apparently feels my age somehow makes my sacrifice more creditworthy than his. Don’t understand reasoning myself, but he means it. Also thinks I would have made good Marine.
Besides, considers me cutest thing since invention of puppies. “Fathers” me for all he’s worth — half the time absent-mindedly calls me first by one of several daughters’ names. Even if managed to convince him offer not irrational behavior brought on by approaching end, would never take advantage.
In fact, as ponder matter further, probably be mortally offended that anyone would think for second he could be interested in someone my age. No; much too fond of him to take risk.
And Kyril — uh-uh, don’t think him either. Granted, genuinely beautiful man, and quite fond of him, but — well, don’t know why; somehow notion makes me uncomfortable. Hate to admit it after contributions — giving life same as we, after all — but somewhere down in deepest, darkest corner of soul, perhaps share AAs’ unresolved doubts about Russian’s ultimate sincerity.
And apart from that, is so incredibly intelligent, perceptive (along with sweet), would probably deduce real motive; cooperate out of desire to satisfy childish scientific curiosity, acting as one friend helping another. Doesn’t sound much like formula for making Earth Move.
Never mind; maybe have better luck next time around.
Speaking of which, would be nice to know for sure What Comes Next. Suspect main reason not afraid of death is Momma Foster’s attitude as own end approached. Things like that stick with five-year-olds; settle into, become part of basic makeup, foundations. No doubt in my mind whatsoever Momma went to Heaven; and find myself looking forward to reunion — maybe with Daddy, too? Hope so…
If get there myself, of course… Whole life has yet to “flash before my eyes,” but difficult to resist occasional furtive glance over shoulder as time approaches. Have attempted to live “good” life: Always tried to help where could; never hurt anyone on purpose when could avoid it.
But occasionally good intentions didn’t pan out.
Wonder how killing Rollo looks on Record in Big Book.
Accident? Yes. Unavoidable? Under circumstances, yes.
But as Kim pointed out, if had known in advance that that’s what would take to save twin’s life…
There. Now getting down to real pain locus — never suggested facing imminent death easy; or knowing manner, hour of arrival, fun.
No. Hurts. Hurts lots. Hurts awful!
Thinking about loved ones’ pain. Counting own losses — never again holding serious “grown-up” philosophical discussions with Lisa; no more whispered, giggly huddles with Kim on subject of Men, Women Life; never again holding nose over one of Adam’s puns, or watching him glow with pride as I wax lyrical over product of culinary genius. Never again to learn from Teacher; or dig up own data, make own discoveries — and so much to learn…!
And nevermore to chat, play, share contented silences with Terry…
That may be most distressing thought of all — everyone else rational, intelligent; understands circumstances, reasons; will grieve, heal, remember me, go on.
But innocent birdbrain incapable of understanding circumstances; doesn’t reason. Only knows is happy with me, miserable without. Only knows I left him, never returned. May recover, may not. But will hurt for long, long time and never know reason why.
No. Nothing fun about knowledge of impending death. For first time in months have experienced resurgence of bleak, terrible loneliness; horror, nightmares; depression that so paralyzed me during weeks following attack: Feelings of helplessness, futility; cornered feelings. Granted, predicament voluntary — but circumstances leading to stepping forward not.
(And homilies about spilt milk may be apt, but sure not very comforting.)
Well, might as well wrap it up, go to bed. Launch scheduled for 6:00 A. M.; means 3:30 reveille: Must be aboard Hale by T minus one hour 50 minutes; lots to do before lighting fuse.
Plus big breakfast scheduled first; traditional astronauts’ steak-and-eggs pig-out — especially critical this time because weight considerations preclude taking much in way of consumables with us: Every ounce left behind frees that much more fuel for maneuvering as we rendezvous with bomb — promises to be near thing as is.
And apologies for neglect, Posterity. Have wanted to update journal, honest; but these few minutes before bed this evening literally first opportunity have had since landing here six days ago. Wasn’t dodging responsibility; well understand importance: If mission succeeds, future generations of teachers will want to bore students with inspirational Life Times of Candidia Smith-Foster, Plucky Girl Savior of Our People.
(Of course being sarcastic; but also stating fact. National heroes — nay, racial heroes, more important yet — really should try to leave accurate, intelligible [did my best] record of How I Really Did It and Why. Failure to discharge responsibility spawns inevitably inflationary folklore — and can’t bear thought of future generations hearing how I crossed Susquehanna on crumbling trestle’s single remaining rail, van balanced on two wheels, thereby eluding marauding band of sex-crazed mutants; or that I stupidly chopped down cherry tree in youth and even more stupidly admitted it.)
Will leave journal on table tomorrow morning for Teacher to find. Has promised to make locating family crash-priority project first thing after crisis; invite them into burgeoning hominem community. In due time he or they — someone, surely — will merge this volume with previous three.
(And must say, resulting tome disappointingly slim. Had planned on, hoped for, much more substantial monument.)
Really must be getting to bed now; 3:30 horrendous hour. (And do not understand necessity: Geosynchronous orbits, like gibbets, available 24 hours a day — so why must astronauts, condemned prisoners alike, always get up before dawn? Doesn’t make whole lot of sense.)
Well, good-bye, Posterity. Take care of future for me.
And good-bye everybody else. Good luck — I’ll do my best.
I love you.