An infuriated Rip kicked the unconscious Aussie again, then dragged him away from the saucer so he wouldn’t be crushed by the antigravity field. He left him lying about twenty-five feet away on his stomach. Just for good measure, he kicked him in the ribs as hard as he could, one more time.
Rip climbed aboard and closed the hatch. Charley Pine was in the pilot’s seat wearing the headband. Solo was lying on the seats at the rear of the compartment with Egg sitting beside him. Nothing could be done to help Solo while the saucer was under the G forces of acceleration, so Rip grabbed the back of the pilot’s seat with a death grip.
Charley lifted the saucer off the ground, snapped up the gear and lit the rocket engines. The roar from the rocket engines woke up everyone within twenty miles, even the drunks. The young man who had shot Solo had his eardrums shattered.
Inside the saucer Charley Pine asked the computers for full power. Gs pushed against them like the hand of God. As the saucer’s airspeed passed Mach 1, she pulled the nose of the ship up into the morning, away from the earth, toward the invisible stars.
When the saucer was in orbit and weightless, Rip, Charley and Uncle Egg gathered around Solo, trying to bandage his wound and assess how badly he was injured. Solo was conscious.
He was bleeding a bit from his mouth. “Lung, I think,” he whispered.
“You’ve been injured a lot worse than this plenty of times before,” Rip said, more to Charley and Egg than to Adam Solo. “Hang tough and fix yourself up.”
Solo closed his eyes. His face was lined, spare, his eyes deep within their sockets. The scar the polar bear had given him just a few days ago was a solid white line that led into his hair.
“This man needs a doctor,” Egg said flatly. “He’s bleeding internally.”
“He can fix himself,” Rip said confidently.
“Just how are we going to get him to a doctor?” Charley asked.
Solo opened his eyes again.
“I know a place,” he whispered, “in the Grand Canyon.” He coughed blood.
It’s been seven, perhaps eight hundred years since I was there, but there was usually water and it’s almost impregnable. No one can approach by land. Take the saucer to Lake Powell and refuel it. We will go to the place I know. Then you must send the saucer into orbit. Tell the computer to calculate an orbit that will allow the saucer to return to us with the minimum amount of maneuvering. That will probably be a polar orbit.
Rip glanced at Charley and Uncle Egg.
“Let’s do it,” Rip said. He motioned with his head, and Charley Pine climbed into the pilot’s seat.
The president was relieved to see Petty Officer Hennessey, who looked natty in his blue uniform with the bell-bottom trousers and a splash of color on his left sleeve. He even had a couple of ribbons on his jumper, decorations, but the president didn’t know one from another. Hennessey had his round, white sailor hat in his hands since he was indoors. Without his hat he couldn’t salute; it was a navy thing. Hennessey stood at attention, though. The president pointed to a chair and Hennessey dropped into it. He put his hat on his lap.
“These aliens,” the president began. “Space Command says a starship is approaching earth. Be here in two days.”
Hennessey’s expression didn’t change.
“What do you think?” the president prompted.
“I think it’s gonna be fun, Mr. President. Don’t sweat the program. After all, if these guys are smart enough to get here from there, they gotta have something on the ball. They’ll really appreciate a drink and a decent meal. Probably would like to get laid too, but I don’t think you oughta get into that.”
The president nodded. Damn good advice, he thought.
“Long voyages are pretty much all alike,” the sailor observed.
Why, yes, the president thought. I can see that.
“They’ll be just as curious about us as we are about them,” Hennessey continued. “If we use a little common sense everything will come out okay. These guys didn’t come all this way just to see how mad they can make us. When you go visit the cannibals you try not to end up in the stew pot.”
They talked a while longer. When Hennessey left, the president felt better. Yeah. A little common sense. Of course, the problem with common sense is that it is so uncommon. Hennessey was a rare repository of the stuff, the president thought.
The drug moguls’ Boeing was descending into Sydney when the call came from Johnny Murkowsky’s Space Command spy. The saucer had left Australia and was in orbit.
Douglas and Johnny Murk cussed vividly.
“We can’t just go chasing them around the world until the aliens arrive and they hop in some starship and go tootling off,” Douglas protested.
“Our strategy is wrong,” Johnny Murk mused. “Well, let’s land and refuel and head back for the States.”
“Man, I could use a bath, a decent meal and a good night’s sleep,” Douglas said, yawning.
“Enough already,” Johnny Murk shot back. “I would also desperately like to get laid. All right? Are we going to tough this out and get filthy rich, or are we going to watch television in some Aussie hotel as the aliens ascend into heaven to sit on the right hand of God?”
Douglas yawned again. “We haven’t been doing so well so far. Frankly, we’d have been better off staying at home. If you have a better strategy, I’d like to hear it.”
The plane’s wheels squeaked on the concrete. As it taxied Douglas and Murkowsky analyzed the situation yet again and plotted their course.
When the president was told about the saucer coming out of orbit — headed once again for the United States — his heart fluttered. The western United States, the aide said.
Well, at least it isn’t coming here, the president thought.
He recalled his conversation last night with his wife. She and a few friends were vacationing in the south of France. She told him in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t coming home until this whole mess was over and things returned to normal. She had bought several cases of wine that she was shipping home. She was thinking about getting a face-lift. The French plastic surgeons were excellent, she had heard, and very private; the press wouldn’t get wind of it. By the way, she needed some more money.
Normal? What was that?
He marched down to the situation room with Petty Officer Hennessey in tow to find out if the crowds on the streets were going to storm the White House. P. J. O’Reilly was very much in charge. He informed the president that after his announcement that the starship was days away, the crowd was dissipating, a few actually going to work, some going home, the rest filling up restaurants and bars eating or getting drunk, or both. Everyone looked at the monitors that showed video of the crowds on the streets.
“Fifteen senators and twelve congressmen and — women want to meet with you. They want a statement they can pass along to the press and their constituents.”
“Have someone write out something. But I want to read it first.”
“Yes, sir. A delegation of preachers also wants a few minutes of your time, Mr. President. They want some reassurance they can take back to their congregations.”
“Tell them to read their Bibles. Who am I to compete with Jesus and the prophets?”
“An excellent point,” O’Reilly said with just a detectable hint of sarcasm. “And a delegation of foreign ambassadors, about a dozen at last count, wants to meet with you, today if possible. As bad as things are here, they are beginning to spin out of control in foreign capitals.”
The president scowled. “If we can keep the people in the Washington area and out in Peoria calmed down, that will be a feat. What on earth could I possibly say that will oil the waters in Paris and Rome and Beijing?”