At first there was little to see. Only in the direction of the comet was it obvious that the tail was streaming across space to cover hundreds of millions of miles; but later, as it came closer, they could see it in any direction they looked.
When they weren’t watching the comet they could take observations of the Sun. There were another dozen experiments, in crystallography, in thin-film research, to occupy any spare time left from that.
It made for a busy day.
They hadn’t much privacy, but they had some. By mutual agreement and ship design, the personal facilities were in the spacecraft, not the lab capsule. For Baker and Delanty the system was simple enough: a tube to fit over their male members, with a tank to pee in. It flushed.
This time when Baker used the system he felt Delanty’s eyes on him.
“You’re supposed to be asleep. Not watching me piss.”
“You I’m not interested in. Johnny… how does Leonilla manage it? In space”
“Yeah. I managed to forget I don’t know. I’D ask her, huh?”
“Sure. Do that. It’s a cinch I’m not gonna.”
“Me neither.” Johnny opened a valve. Urine jetted from the Apollo into space. Frozen droplets formed a cloud around the craft, like a new constellation of stars, and gradually dissipated. “Why the hell did you get me worrying about that again?”
“I should be the only one with trouble?”
“How’re you getting along?”
“Pretty good.”
Two days later, Delanty was much better — but Baker didn’t have an answer.
He had just returned from taking a vacuum sample, and was alone with Jakov when Baker said, “I can’t stand it.”
“I beg your pardon?” the Russian said.
“Something bothering me. How does Leonilla take a leak in free fall?”
“This concerns you?”
“Sure. It’s not even idle curiosity. One reason we never sent women into space, the design boys couldn’t come up with proper sanitary facilities. Somebody suggested a catheter, but that hurts.” Jakov said nothing. “So how does she do it?” Johnny demanded.
“That is a state secret. I’m sorry,” Pieter Jakov said. Could he be joking? It didn’t show. “It is time for a new series of solar observations. Will you help me with the telescope, please.”
“Sure.” I’ll ask Leonilla, Johnny thought. Before we get down, anyway. He glanced sideways at the Russian. Maybe Jakov didn’t know either.
“How you doing?” Baker asked.
“Fine,” Delanty said. “Does Houston know?”
“Not from me,” Baker said. “Maybe from Baikunyar. I don’t guess Jakov keeps much from his people. But why should they tell Houston?”
“I hate it,” Rick said.
“Sure you do. So what? You’ve proved whatever you needed to. You’re here, and we got the wings opened out. Christ, man, if you can do that kind of work while you’re sick, they ought to call you Ironman. You’ll be working tomorrow.”
“Yeah. You solve that problem that was bothering you?”
Baker shrugged. “No. I asked Pieter. ‘State secret,’ he said. State secret my ass.”
“Well, maybe we can find out. We’ve sure got enough cameras…”
“Sure. That’ll look good in the report. Two U.S. Air Force officers sneaking into the lady’s powder room with cameras. Well, I’ve got the watch. I’ll go wake up Comrade Brigadier. See you.” Johnny Baker floated out of the Apollo capsule and across Hammerlab. It was quiet out there; Leonilla was asleep in Soyuz, Delanty strapped down in Apollo, and Jakov supposedly catching a nap before going on watch.
Baker swam toward the Russian’s bunk. In the maze of telescopes and cameras and growing crystals and x-ray detectors Jakov floated, lightly strapped to a nylon web. He was grinning at the bulkhead. When Johnny reached him, the grin blinked out.
Like he just gave somebody a hotfoot, Johnny Baker thought. And was caught in the act.
State secret my ass.
June: Three
Then let them which be in Judaea flee into the mountains.
The outer receptionist was new, and she didn’t send Harvey Randall on into the big executive suite on the third floor of Los Angeles City Hall. Harvey didn’t mind. There were others waiting out there, and his crew wouldn’t be up with the cameras for a few minutes anyway. He was early for his appointment.
Harvey took a seat and indulged in his favorite game: people-watching. Most of the visitors were obvious. Vendors, political types, all there to see one of the deputy mayors or an executive assistant. One was different. She was in her twenties, and Harvey couldn’t tell if early or late twenties. She wore jeans and a flowered blouse, but they’d come from an expensive shop, not from The Gap. She stared frankly, and when Harvey looked at her she didn’t let her eyes drop in embarrassment. Harvey shrugged and crossed the room to sit next to her. “What’s so interesting about me?” he asked.
“I recognized you. You do TV documentaries. I’ll remember your name in a minute.”
“Fine,” Harvey said.
That did make her look away; but she turned back to him with half a smile. “All right. What is it?”
“You first.”
“Mabe Bishop.” Her accent was definitely native.
Harvey fished into his memories. “Aha. People’s Lobby.” “Right.” She didn’t change expressions, which was curious; most people would be pleased to have a national documentary reporter recognize their name. Harvey was still finding that surprising when she said, “You still haven’t told me.”
“Harvey Randall.”
“Now it’s my turn to say ‘aha.’ You’re doing the comet shows.”
“Right. How did you like them?”
“Terrible. Dangerous. Stupid.”
“You don’t mince words. Mind telling me why?” Harvey asked.
“Not at all. First, you’ve scared the wits out of fifty million halfwits—”
“I did not—”
“And they should be scared, but not of a damned comet! Comets! Signs in the heavens! Evil portents! Medieval crap, when there’s plenty to worry about right here on Earth” Her tones were full and bitter.
“And what should they be scared of?” Harvey prompted. He didn’t really want to know, and cursed himself the instant he said it. It was a reporter’s automatic question, but the trouble was, she’d sure as hell tell him.
She did. “Spray cans ruining the atmosphere, destroying ozone, causing cancer. A new atomic power plant in the San Joaquin Valley making radioactive wastes that will be around for half a million years! The big Cadillacs and Lincolns are burning m-megatons of gasoline. All these things that we’ve got to do something about, things we should be scared of, and instead everyone’s hiding in the root cellar afraid of a comet!”
“You’ve got a point,” Randall said. “Even if I don’t think all of those are good causes—”
“Oh, don’t you? And which ones aren’t?” she demanded. Her voice was full of hate, and readiness for attack.
My, my, Harvey thought. There were times when he wanted to take his reportorial objectivity, roll it tightly and stuff it in an anatomically uncomfortable place about the person of a pompous professor of journalism.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “The reason people are still burning gas in those big comfortable cars is that they can’t get enough electricity to run electric cars. They can’t get electricity because the air’s already full of crap from fossil fuel plants and we’re running out of fossil fuels, and damned fools keep delaying the nuclear plants that might get us out of that particular box.” Harvey stood up. “And if I ever hear the words ‘spray can’ and ‘ozone’ again, I’ll track you down wherever you hide and throw up in your lap.”