The changing radar image suggested it was spinning.

In the passenger cabin, Rick Hailey's heart was pounding furiously. He was pressed back hard in his seat, his eyes closed, listening to the crackle of debris raining off the hull, trying to think how he could put this experience into one of Haskell's speeches. But he knew this was a critical moment, had heard the change in tone in the engines, had felt the sudden jerky turns, and knew the pilot was trying to evade something.

Several seats behind him, the TV correspondent was still talking into her microphone. Behind and on his left sat Sam Anderson and Isabel. Slade Elliott was back toward the rear of the spacecraft. Captain Pierce, skipper of the Shadow, survivor of a hundred desperate encounters.

But not this one.

The world broke open and a terrible cold seized Rick's throat. He died wondering whether Charlie Haskell would be able to pay him an appropriate tribute. Micro Flight Deck. 10:48 P.M.

"I think we're okay."

Saber cringed when he said it, knew instinctively that the remark would be unlucky. It sounded too much like an epitaph. And she was right.

The long-range scanners hadn't been worth a damn. There was simply too much free-floating junk in their rear, all of it coming too fast. The radar had settled down, was pinging more or less steadily, and then immediately after Tony's remark erupted into a cacophony of pings and bleeps.

"Son of a bitch," said Tony.

It looked like a solid wall coming up from behind. "Range two k," she said. "Closing at one-two-five." Kilometers per hour.

They had about a minute.

The wall shut off everything; it was a dark sandstorm. She could see no end to it in any direction.

Tony, knowing he couldn't outrun it, shut down the engine, rotated the clusters, and fired, changing the attitude of the bus. Then he relit, hoping to get above it, but Saber knew he wasn't going to make it. She picked up the mike: "Brace yourselves."

The SSTOs were more solidly built than the Micro, but their real advantage in this kind of situation was their capability to pile on the coal. The bus had only two speeds: one g and glide. It was the equivalent of trying to run from an avalanche in a potato sack.

Tony readjusted their angle at the last moment and cut power, turning the bus to face the storm. Keep the junk out of the engine.

It hit. Metal screeched, and a hurricane of rock and debris blasted the hull. An explosion rocked the Micro and sent it into a tumble. Klaxons sounded and red lamps blinked. Then as quickly as it had come, it was gone, leaving them spinning in its wake.

Saber needed a moment to clear her vision. When she did, Tony was trying to talk to Bigfoot over the intercom. And getting no answer.

She looked at the status board.

The cargo deck had been holed.

"My God," whispered Tony. "Was he in his suit?"

He'd still been wearing the helmet last time she'd seen him. "It might be the radio," she said.

Maybe.

A second warning blinker claimed her attention. "Losing air." Her voice tightened. "C deck again. Looks as if the line's blown." She closed it off, also effectively shutting down the oxygen supply for the rest of the vehicle.

Tony continued calling Bigfoot's name until Saber asked him to stop. "When we're reasonably clear," she said, "we'll have to go EVA." Can't wait too long. There'll be an air problem.

His gaze traveled down to her p-suit. "Where's your helmet?"

Where was it? She couldn't remember. She'd taken it off as soon as they were through the lock. Had carried it with her. She looked around the flight deck but didn't see it. They exchanged uncomfortable glances. If it was still in the cargo section, there'd be no way to make repairs.

She was out of her chair, searching furiously through cabinets and utility drawers. When she found nothing, she opened the hatch to the passenger cabin, saw the darkness below, snatched up a torch, and dropped down the ladder. "Everybody okay?" she asked, trying to mask her concern.

"Yeah," said the vice president. "We're fine. What's going on?"

She flashed the beam around the compartment. "Anybody see a helmet?"

"You mean this?" Keith Morley held it up so she could see it. "You gave it to me as you ran by."

Thank God. "Thanks, Keith." Dropping her professional demeanor, she hugged him.

"Saber." Charlie's voice had steel in it this time. "What's happening?"

She explained that the lower deck had been punctured. "We'll have to go outside to fix it."

"Outside?" said Morley. "In this?"

She nodded. "We've shut down life support temporarily. If it starts getting a little close in here, oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling. Use them."

"What about Bigfoot?" asked Evelyn.

She shook her head. "No way to know," she said, taking the helmet and starting back up the ladder. "We'll pass the word as soon as we do."

She closed the hatch behind her. "You think we can try this now?" she asked Tony.

The radar screen was quiet again.

The passenger compartment had a dozen masks, far more than enough to wait out a rescue coming from Moonbase or L1. Waiting would have been standard procedure last week. Keep the passengers safe, and sit tight till help gets there. That was the credo. But conditions had changed.

"We've got another problem," Tony said. He was digging into the equipment cabinet, from which he produced a wrench, a couple of screwdrivers, a bar, a torch, and two rolls of duct tape. "The airlock down there's got a trouble light. Outside hatch doesn't respond." He looked up to see Saber putting on her helmet.

"Not now," he said.

"You want to wait?"

"Yeah. We've got time. Let's wait till it gets a little less crowded out there."

"Okay. That makes sense."

"There's something else."

"What?"

"You're not going."

"Why not? I don't think we should chance losing the pilot."

"Hell, Saber, that's not the point. We might need some muscle to get the hatch open. You don't have a lot of heft." Quebec. 10:56 P.M.

Twenty-one minutes into the event, streaks of light were seen over Saguenay Provincial Park in Quebec. It was the first recorded sighting of impact debris.

2.

SSTO Arlington Passenger Cabin. 10:57 P.M.

Andrea Bellwether had relaxed somewhat after those early terrifying minutes. She'd been literally paralyzed by fear, unable to stop imagining what it would be like if one of the rocks struck the plane, splitting it open and dumping her and her seat into the void. She'd never thought of herself as a coward. There'd been times during her life when she'd stood up to be counted, when she'd confronted bullies, and even once a mob when an IRA demonstration had turned ugly in London. But this was different, and she was left weak and shaken in the aftermath.

If the fire had not entirely drained from the sky, at least it seemed to have subsided, and the constant hammering and banging on the hull had stopped. Periodically the captain spoke to them, reassuring them. Just now she needed to be treated like a child. Pat me on the head and tell me it's okay. Skyport Orbital Lab. 10:59 P.M.

Tory Clark was connected to a vast array of instruments in space and around the world, and data were pouring in. Windy Cross had gotten so excited, he'd forgotten his outrage at her. They were getting magnificent images, and the circuits were filled with excited voices. Infrared scans had penetrated the fireball. As predicted, the impact had shattered the Moon, had literally broken it apart. Pieces the size of Texas had torn loose and were adrift. It was too soon to ascertain where they were going, but theory suggested most of the debris would spread out at about the present lunar radius, with most of it remaining along the orbital line.