FRANK CRANDALL'S ALL-NIGHTER. 8:49 P.M.

Crandall: Linda from Anchorage, you're on. Caller: Hello, Frank. I wanted to tell you how much I admire you. Thank God there's somebody to get the truth out. Crandall: Thank you, Linda. What did you want to talk about? Caller: The comet? Crandall: Okay. What about the comet? Caller: Frank, doesn't it seem to you that the whole thing's a hoax? Crandall: In what way, Linda? Are you saying there is no comet? Caller: Oh, no. There's a comet, all right. You can see it. But I think Kolladner and Haskell saw a way to turn it to political advantage. Crandall: Tell me how. Caller: Oh, come on, Frank. You don't really think they're going to leave a vice president on the Moon if it's going to be destroyed, do you? Crandall: What do you think is going to happen? Caller: Well, damn, the story's already beginning to come unraveled. First they said he was going to sacrifice himself, and now they're saying, well, maybe they can get him off, that they've got some hero space pilot who's going to make the effort, but how it's a thousand-to-one shot. You want to bet he makes it? Crandall: You sound a trifle cynical, Linda. Caller: Realistic, Frank. I'm just realistic.

5.

Moonbase, Director's Private Dining Room. 8:53 P.M.

At first Bigfoot thought they'd all been drinking a little too much. He could hear them from the elevator, singing and laughing. The song was "Stout-Hearted Men," and somebody was playing a guitar. He walked in and they cheered his arrival. The musician was Jack Chandler. He was wearing a party hat.

They were all wearing party hats. Charlie Haskell waved him in and pointed him to a chair. A couple of empty wine bottles stood on the table, and one had missed a trash can, but there was no sign of anything stronger. "How are things at the ol' launchpad?" asked Hampton. And they all laughed like banshees.

"It's okay, Bigfoot," said the chaplain, apparently noting his worried expression. "We can make it over there okay."

More laughs. Then, as if a switch had been thrown,

Chandler acquired a serious expression and put the guitar aside. "How are we doing?" he asked.

"Everything's as ready as I can make it. Tony's running on schedule."

The only one of the group Bigfoot knew personally was Chandler. The others introduced themselves, and Bigfoot got to shake the vice president's hand. Evelyn thanked him for staying behind to help.

Morley invited him to do an interview and they all laughed again. This time Bigfoot joined them. SSTO Arlington Flight Deck. 9:05 P.M.

George Culver watched the microbus come in along his port side. The pilot laid it smoothly in position and began sending over his passengers. Two other buses were following close behind, and he had both in his instruments. He would load the passengers from all three as quickly as he could, make his window, and get out of the neighborhood.

That was the vehicle that was going to turn around, go back, and try to rescue the vice president. George admired the pilot. He looked out at the comet and tried to cover it with his hand at arm's length, but could not. He was happy he wasn't going to be here.

The Micro informed him that transfer had been completed. He watched the lamps signaling that the passenger cabin airlock was closing down. When it was sealed, Mary came forward. The Micro's thrusters lit and it arced away into the night.

"Heads up," he said. "Next one's coming in."

One of the passengers who'd volunteered to help now appeared at the door behind him. "Problem, Captain," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"I think they're getting a little nervous in back. Could you come back and talk to them?"

George couldn't leave the flight deck with a bus approaching. "Mary?" he said.

She nodded. But another voice broke in, deep and angry. Its owner appeared immediately behind the volunteer: "I don't think we need any talk. What we need is to get this goddam plane on the road." The speaker was a beefy man, thin hair, angry eyes. Lot of loose flesh. Enough mass for two people, George thought. He was barely thirty.

The flight engineer jumped to his feet. "Sir," said Curt, "you're not permitted in here."

"You people are going to get us all killed. You see how close that son of a bitch is?" He looked at the comet.

George got up. "We'll be out of here in plenty of time-"

"We damned well need to get out of here now. Everything's taking too long."

"I assure you, Mr.-?"

"Donnelly," the man foamed. "I was only here doing survey work. Nobody said anything about something like this."

"It's a surprise to us all, Mr. Donnelly."

"Why wasn't I put on one of the other planes?"

"We're already on course for home," said George. "Our window's up ahead. We'll be picking up more passengers on our way out. But we need everyone to sit down and stay out of the way." Curt took Donnelly's arm and tried to lead him back to the passenger cabin. But he shook free and began a string of invective.

George turned the controls over to Mary and got up. "Go back to your seat," he said calmly. "You're interfering with flight operations and endangering everybody."

"Screw you," said Donnelly.

It was enough for George, who delivered a short hard right to Donnelly's stomach. The man folded up and went backward. "Get him out of here," he told the volunteer flight attendant.

"Captain," she said, "he isn't the only one who feels that way."

Donnelly tried to get up and hit back, but he measured George's size-and maybe his anger-and thought better of it. He grumbled about bringing legal action and limped out.

George followed him back to the passenger cabin.

The SSTO had a capacity for two hundred and thirty-five passengers. They had seventy-four on board now, with thirty-seven to come. They were well distributed, and George picked a spot from which most of them could see him. He picked up a mike. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "I know this is unnerving for some of you. But we're on our way back home now. One bus is pulling alongside us as we speak; another's running right behind it. We'll pick up those people and that'll be the end of it. Meantime, I repeat, we're headed home at this very minute, and we can't do any better than this even if there were no more buses, because we have a window to hit. Please stay calm.

"This is a very tough and very reliable spacecraft. It's extremely fast, and we'll be gone more than an hour before impact.

"That'll be plenty of time. Now…" He paused. "We can't afford distractions, because they endanger all of us. I'm going to be busy, and my crew will be busy. So we won't tolerate any nonsense." He looked across the rows of seats and found Donnelly, who was glaring at him. Most of the passengers wore Moonbase uniforms. Donnelly and four others, in civilian clothes, were clustered together. Non-Moonbase personnel, he decided, who'd been out on the surface and gotten back late.

"Don't worry about it, Captain," said one of the uniforms, looking meaningfully in Donnelly's direction. "Nobody'll get out of line."

"Thank you," said George. "I know we'll all cooperate."

• • • Point Judith, Rhode Island. 9:11 P.M.

Luke Peterson cut a slice of cherry pie, poured a glass of cold milk, and listened to the soft rumble of the incoming tide. A couple of trawlers moved listlessly through the dark, and he could hear kids laughing on the beach. Otherwise, Point Judith seemed deserted. Its streets were quiet. The shops down at the mall had mostly shut down early. Even Kroger had closed.

The Hendersons next door had told him they'd been planning all along to go see their cousins in Woonsocket, and no, it didn't have anything to do with the comet. Pete Albuchek across the street had discovered that he had to go visit an old friend in Worcester.