He'd found it difficult to eat since leaving Atlanta. All his anatomical systems seemed to be in disarray. He wished he'd insisted on staying at the AstroLab, where he'd have been more effective because he wouldn't have been constantly ill.

The program brought in the other engines, went to full thrust here, quarter thrust there. It played the seven power plants like a symphony.

At zero plus one minute the tumble began to slow. The Possum edged toward stability.

Feinberg had placed Lowell at the rear of the Possum to take full advantage of its nuclear capability. There it would run throughout the operation at full power, acting as a kind of outboard motor.

The phone, surprisingly, did not ring. Carpenter had thought Haskell would be on it constantly, demanding updates throughout the operation, wasting his time. But it remained silent.

TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 4:15 A.M..

"This is Angela Shepard outside Union Station in Chicago. Despite the late hour, you can see that enormous crowds have gathered here along Jackson Boulevard. The flight from the city goes on, but many of those who remain are coming together in the downtown area. We're getting reports that the same phenomenon is occurring throughout the Midwest, people gathering to await the outcome of the Rainbow mission. Here, the streets are filled, bells are tolling, traffic's at a standstill. But it's almost a festive atmosphere, unlike the terrifying scenes we witnessed over the weekend from the coastal cities, and even earlier today in parts of the Midwest.

"It's as if some vast herd instinct has taken over. People we've talked to seem to be optimistic. By ten to one, in our informal poll, they say they think the rock will be stopped. Some have brought pots and cowbells, and they're ready to celebrate.

"There've been some arrests for disorderly behavior, but police are telling us it's not what you might expect, not people looting stores, but just folks partying a little too hard. I have to say, it's one of the strangest things I've ever seen. We came here tonight expecting to see panic, and instead we get this." (Camera pans the street filled with people laughing and singing.)

"They've been told that, if the Possum comes, they'll be able to see it from here, looking toward the southwest. It's a warm night. The Moon-cloud is down, and the sky is absolutely clear.

"Almost everybody has a TV. They're slung over shoulders, or slipped into back pockets. The stores all seem to be open and televisions are on everywhere. I'm looking now at an image of this broadcast in the window of a furniture store. These folks started arriving in the early evening and they've been here all night. Whatever happens this morning, you have to admire the courage of these people." (Off-camera applause.)

"Back to you, Don. This is Angela Shepard in Chicago."

4.

Minot, North Dakota. 3:16 A.M. Central Daylight Time (4:16 A.M. EDT).

Minot might have had a little more steel in its blood than the average North Dakota town. Its citizenry was reinforced by a large population of air force dependents, who'd decided they couldn't do anything about the danger in the sky, but who'd gathered at two elementary schools and kept them open for the hundreds of lost and stranded people who were coming in from the south. Now, with some bacon and scrambled eggs in her stomach, Marilyn Keep felt much better. She stood with her husband in a small crowd outside the Dwight Eisenhower Elementary School auditorium, drinking coffee and half watching a battery-powered TV somebody had put on a chair.

Most of the USAF operational personnel were gone, hauling supplies to stricken areas, carrying out sick and injured, trying to get through the emergency as best they could. But the support people, and the dependents, were still in Minot.

Marilyn was asked about New York, and she described the flooded streets, the sense of being isolated on the rooftop, the child against whom she'd closed the door. ("It's okay" someone said, "you couldn't help it.")

The television carried a close-up of one of the space planes, the long fiery lances from its twin engines illuminating the dark rock. They were two minutes into the operation now, and the reporter said that everything was going well. So far. Even if it didn't, she thought, even if the situation broke down, surely they were far enough north to be safe.

Surely. Percival Lowell Utility Deck. 4:20 A.M. Zero plus six.

The reality was that Keith Morley had no idea how things were going. He was in effect doing play-by-play, and he'd assumed that he'd somehow be able to see the operation. But he had only the images being transmitted from the monitoring vessels, flashes of light in the darkness, recognizable on close-up as flames boiling out of rockets. But there was no way to know what, if anything, was happening with the Possum. He had no background against which to measure movement. For that matter, he couldn't be sure that any apparent movement wasn't a result of changes in the position of the sensors on the circling ferries.

He'd tried to stay close to the president, but Haskell was up front in the copilot's chair and Lee Cochran was up there too, so there was no room for Morley.

But this president seemed to be unusually aware of the influence of the media. He called to tell Morley they were on schedule, and that was good, but Morley still had no real details. Nevertheless, he knew approximately what was supposed to happen throughout the operation, so he began simply to fabricate an account, assuming everything was happening as it should, and that they'd tell him if something went wrong. And there was this: If he was wrong, if he was caught hanging out, the world was going to have bigger problems than to simply come after an unfortunate journalist.

"The Possum's tumble has slowed by about thirty percent," he told a global audience. SSTO Berlin Flight Deck. 4:21 A.M. Zero plus seven.

It may have been there were just too many things that could go wrong, too many moving parts, too much guesswork, too much improvisation.

The radio operator from the Mabry was reporting that the Possum was accelerating precisely along predicted lines. Gruder had never doubted it would be so. Assume success, adhere to the math, prepare for breakdowns, and keep focused on the task at hand. It was the formula around which he'd built his professional life. Unlike the bureaucrats, who were fond of saying "Win some, lose some."

So far there'd been little for him to do. He sat inside his p-suit, savoring the experience and contemplating a future filled with people pointing him out and saying, Yes, that's Gruder Muller; he was with the fleet when they turned the Possum aside. If he never did anything else it wouldn't matter. He could die tomorrow and his life would have been a success.

It was a glorious feeling. He'd always wanted to be a hero, and it was actually happening.

"Zero plus eight," said the Mabry. "Vector still looks good."

The Berlin crew had been on the Possum for almost three hours, and Gruder had detected a pattern in the way the Sun and Earth crisscrossed the skies of the microworld. It had been impossible to predict, except in very general terms, where a celestial body would rise. But he'd gotten the timing down. And now everything was running late. A good sign.

The view ahead was obstructed by a low mound, not much higher than the top of the spacecraft and flowing off into embracing ridges on either side. As he watched, the rim of Earth appeared over its left-hand incline.