She didn't really know what was happening. The only view she had of events was what the networks were providing. A few minutes earlier she'd seen a flash outside her window, like summer lightning, but now there was nothing except a glow on her raised tray. Earlier, she'd interviewed Rick Hailey, the vice president's press advisor, who was up in the front of the plane. But it had been relatively tame. Hailey was too old a hand to say anything out of the way. The government would respond appropriately, he assured her, the nation was fortunate to have strong leadership at this critical juncture. That sort of thing.

She'd gotten a far better interview from Slade Elliott. He'd surprised her by admitting that, sure, he was scared, wasn't everybody, but he'd talked to the pilot, John Verrano, and Verrano seemed both competent and confident.

Would he like to have Shadow along this time? Shadow was the self-aware TV starship in which Captain Pierce and his oddball crew roamed the galaxy. "Sure," he grinned. "This kind of flight would be small potatoes for Shadow."

Tashi also recognized two of Charlie Haskell's Secret Service detail, the big one they called Sam, and an attractive young woman who looked like innocence personified.

There'd been some empty seats on the plane, so Yomiuri had been able to keep access to the aisle. She had a camera, and if the spacecraft started to rock, she'd get some good coverage and maybe come out of this pretty well after all.

Within minutes after Morley's signal had been lost, they brought her up live on the Pacific News Network. She described the mood in the plane, making much of it up because there was no unified mood. Some people were merrily oblivious to the danger, others were terrified. But Tashi painted a picture of passengers hanging tough because it made good press, and because it wasn't that far from the truth anyhow, if you could draw a line more or less down the middle.

She was interrupted by the PA: "This is the captain. Ladies and gentlemen, we'll probably be doing some maneuvering during the next few minutes. It might get a little rough; we expect it'll be something like running through a storm. I want to assure you, however, that you're in a very well built plane, and we'll come out of this in good shape. Meanwhile, I'd like you to secure any loose articles so they don't injure you or anyone else. Please be sure your tray is up, and everything not fastened down is in an overhead bin. We'll let you know when we've gotten through this."

Yomiuri took a deep breath and went back to her play-by-play. Her earphones pinged and her producer spoke to her: "Tashi, we're going to switch over to the Pool."

She would be going global. "Okay," she said.

"In one minute. Clyde Sommer's your anchor. FYI, as far as we can determine, nobody's reestablished contact with the Micro or with the other plane."

That produced a chill. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"It's likely just the general turbulence. Maybe they're okay, maybe not. We expect to lose you in a couple of minutes, too. Your signal, that is."

Her heart skipped an extra beat. "Right," she said.

"Twenty seconds."

"Okay. I'm ready to go."

She listened to the countdown in her earphones, imagined Clyde Sommer, the network anchor, seated at the prime desk in New York. Just before she went on, she removed the right earphone and slid it up on her head so she could hear what was going on around her. "This is Tashi Yomiuri, on board a space plane approximately ninety thousand miles from what used to be the Moon. We are currently running at about fifteen thousand miles an hour before a hurricane of fire…"

CHAPTER SEVEN

Saturday, April 13 to Sunday, April 14

1.

Micro Flight Deck. 10:40 P.M.

They'd survived the initial blast. Tony had run with the storm with consummate skill, reigniting the engine at the first opportunity and jinking the bus in ways that its designers would not have thought possible. Watching him, Saber had been grateful that she was riding that night with Tony Casaway.

The initial fury had subsided. They were still taking a lot of hits, but most were glancing shots that banged and clanged and did no serious damage. One tore into a storage compartment belowdecks, but the hatches held; another took out a power conduit and left the passenger cabin in darkness. Fortunately, the occasional boulders that leaped at them out of the dark, and the cascades of melted rock that slashed across the sky, did not have their exact coordinates, and so they lived.

It was as if a wave had passed. The void now was still filled with charging debris. But it was in quantities and at velocities that allowed the sensors to track major threats.

Morley asked whether the Micro had reestablished outside communications yet. The answer was no. "Damn," he said, "this is great stuff." But he added that he wouldn't mind if the excitement died off a little.

Evelyn wondered whether the captain knew the passenger cabin had no lights.

"We know," said Saber. "We'll fix it later. But we're a little preoccupied right now." She was pointing out an incoming fragment while she talked. Tony nodded and moved the Micro out of the way. The fragment was a long, thin sliver, maybe half the length of a football field, tumbling end over end. She heard the reaction in the cabin as it sliced past.

The short- and long-range sensors filled the screens with returns. Sometimes they were rock shards and storms of pebbles and dust; more often they were amoeba-forms that might have been belches of gas or plasma. The viewports revealed mountainous shadows and liquid fire. Occasionally the stars disappeared altogether, as if the Micro were passing down a red tunnel.

They continued to move steadily through the crowded sky at one g.

"Micro, this is Skyport." The voice crackled in his earphones. "Do you read?"

"We copy, Skyport. We are still here."

"What is your status?"

Tony relayed what he knew, fuel usage, damage report, passenger list. "No casualties."

"Micro, we're missing one name."

"Jack Chandler. He didn't make it."

"What happened?"

"Heart attack, we think. Died just before they were scheduled to come on board. His body was left at Moonbase."

The response broke up.

"Say again, Skyport. Do you read?" There was only interference.

Something hit the blister again and was gone too quickly to be seen. It left a crooked star, not unlike the type that a flying rock might put in a windshield.

"We okay?" asked Tony.

The danger was that the blister had to withstand 14.7 pounds per square inch of air pressure. The three decks, cargo, passenger, and flight, were sealed off from each other. So if the worst happened, and the canopy blew out, at least the Micro would only lose its pilots.

Only the pilots.

Saber touched the star with her index finger. She pushed gently at it and traced the individual lines. "I think it's okay," she said. Micro Cargo Deck. 10:41 P.M.

Like Saber, Bigfoot was still inside his pressure suit. As a precaution, he'd put his helmet back on, but he was having problems with vertigo and got it off again just before throwing up. He'd secured himself to the ladder with his belt; and although the accelerated liftoff wasn't nearly as stressful as it would have been leaving Earth, it was nevertheless not comfortable, and left him with bruised ribs and an aching shoulder that he suspected had been dislocated.

C deck, the cargo deck, was a confined space: it possessed no viewports, and it rocked and fell and twisted until his head spun violently. He wished he'd moved more quickly and got to the passenger cabin.