"Good." Haskell looked as if he'd aged overnight. A couple of people came over and asked to shake his hand. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vice President, they said. And, Good luck in the primaries. No assumption here he'd get the nomination. When they left, Charlie shook his head but said nothing.
Rick was silent for a time. "I heard," he said, "that the chaplain's staying, too."
"The chaplain?" Charlie's eyes narrowed.
"Yeah," said Rick. "I thought the same thing."
More hand-shakers appeared. The vice president was his usual cordial self. He had the gift of making the person to whom he was speaking feel as if his entire day had been directed toward that meeting. He was happy to make their acquaintance, he said. And he was proud of what they'd accomplished.
"What same thing?" he asked Rick when they were alone again.
"Well, you know. The chaplain doesn't look like the kind of guy who'd do that."
Haskell closed his eyes momentarily. The public address system announced that GREEN flight was ready to board.
"Time to go," said Rick.
The vice president didn't move for a long time. Finally he shook his head. "No," he said. "I can't do this." He turned to Sam, who was developing a horror-struck expression. "You and your people get on the flight," he said. "See that someone gets my ticket."
"I can't do that," protested Sam.
"Do it. I'll see that your protests go on record." He shook hands with Rick and thanked him.
"What are you doing?" asked Rick.
"I'm not sure," said Charlie. "But I know what I can't do." Copenhagen Flight Deck. 12:51 P.M.
Nora Ehrlich ignited her engines, and let them idle while she glided along her orbital path. Then, at precisely at 1:02 P.M., she applied thrust, and the space plane, carrying 136 passengers, lifted out of orbit and started for home. Moonbase, Grissom Country. 1:47 P.M.
Evelyn Hampton had left Moonbase evacuation to Jack Chandler, and had devoted her time to preparing Moonbase International to deal with the situation. She'd nominated the person whom she wished to succeed her, had developed a strategy that might allow the corporation, after going Chapter Eleven, to revive itself in a new form. "We can't just give up," she'd told the board of directors. "The technologies now exist to expand beyond Earth. The experience with Tomiko should not deter us; rather, it should serve as a warning." For a start, she thought, there was Project Skybolt, an orbiting laser system that would have been capable of slicing incoming asteroids into rubble. But the program had inevitably been perceived as pork. It was an easy target for budget cutters, and after fifteen years and several abortive starts, it had still not gotten off the drawing boards. Even Culpepper had opposed it. We don't need it at this time. It would not, of course, have been much use against Tomiko, but it might have been nice to have in the aftermath of the collision if pieces of the moon began drifting earthward. If we learn nothing else from this, we now know that the hazards are very real and there's a legitimate need for planetary defenses. But there's more to it. A lot more.
Expansion seemed to be built into the genes of the species. Expand or stagnate. But the Western governments were heavily in debt. If there was going to be a drive off-planet, private interests would have to show the way, would have to demonstrate a payoff. It would have to become a moneymaker.
That hadn't happened yet. Wouldn't have happened for years to come. But there were still off-world industries to be developed. And if the Moon has been here just long enough to allow us to use it as a springboard, then we should be grateful for that.
The important thing now, she told MBI, is that we do not go back into the shell. The current generation has the equipment and the knowledge to begin the process. If these people are forced into other lines of work, if the buses and ferries and SSTOs are mothballed, then it'll be over. Certainly for our lifetimes. Maybe forever.
She prepared a few farewells that she'd send out tomorrow, if necessary. She was spending much of her time now in Jack Chandler's company. Unspoken communications passed between them, a glance, a smile, a shrug. They'd always been close, but now she felt a connection that went beyond anything she had ever felt with another human being. It was as if a psychic link now existed, enabling her to read his thoughts and share his emotions.
And the chaplain. Mark Pinnacle. Mousy little man who'd looked so frightened on the speaker's platform. Who would have thought? She'd been delighted to hear of his offer. It had allowed her to call in Chip Mansfield and tell him he was off the hook. And if somebody else would agree to stay, she could get rid of Benning, who was next in line. She hated the notion of spending the last hours of her life with people who'd stayed only because someone had forced them into it. Better to die with the valiant.
She climbed out of her jumpsuit. It'd been a long day and she ached for a shower. She could justify it now: There was no further need to conserve water.
The telephone rang as she stepped into the stall, but she didn't bother with it. Get it when she came out. The ultimate emergency had broken over her head and nothing was going to rush her again. Not in this life.
Evelyn had been born in Dakar. Her father had been a British missionary, her mother a teacher of French literature at Senegal University. Evelyn had announced early that she wanted to become a physician. She'd seen firsthand the living conditions of the tribes, and she was going to do what she could. It was an admirable ambition, but one that faded in high school when she discovered a distaste for chemistry and physics.
She went to the University of Versailles, where she concluded that a great deal more money was to be made by bringing fantasy to the middle class rather than medical repairs to the poor. Virtual reality was about to arrive on African shores in all its manifestations, diagnostic, cinematic, therapeutic, analytic. Evelyn did not yet have her bachelor's degree when she founded MicroTech, Ltd., hired a secretary, and secured licenses from poorly informed bureaucrats.
From that moment she controlled the growth of the industry in and around Senegal. She profited handsomely from her monopoly, expanded into Mauritania, Ghana, Sierra Leone, and the Ivory Coast. Organized crime tried to move in on her, but she hired her own elite security force, and in the end she was tougher than they were. All of this took place just before the African boom. When it came, Evelyn parlayed it into a seat on the board of Global Communications, Ltd.
She was in the right spot when the nations decided they wanted to establish a permanent presence on the Moon and they needed a corporation to help them do it.
For a while it was MicroTech all over again, except on a global level. She was Time's Woman of the Year in 2022, she employed a half-dozen Nobel prize winners, and she was on first-name terms with prime ministers and presidents. Her ghostwritten book, Moon Over Wall Street, was enjoying its fifty-seventh week on the New York Times best-seller list.
She'd married twice. Marcus Hampton had been gunned down during the war with the east African thugs. William had gotten the wrong idea about her, thinking she'd consent to be part of a harem. She didn't know where he was now.
She had one son by Marcus, who lived with her in Roxbury. He was at MIT, working on a doctorate. Old enough to deal with the loss of his mother. Should it come to that.
The phone was ringing again when she shut the water off. She strode out of the bathroom, toweling herself as she went. "Hampton," she said. Her name, spoken by her voice, activated the instrument.
"Evelyn." It was Chandler. "I just got a message from Ops."