Stephan acknowledged.
He entered the new data into the computer, and six minutes later executed his course change. Copenhagen followed suit.
Berlins first scheduled pickup was to be from the microbus. He ran a simulation of the rendezvous. "We don't match up so well now," he said. "The Micro's going to have to finagle a bit." Washington, D.C. 7:22 A.M.
Harold Boatmann hadn't slept all night. The gray dawn was seeping through the curtains of his Georgetown apartment. He gave up and got out of bed, scrambled some eggs, put a half-dozen strips of bacon into the microwave, made a pot of coffee, and checked with his duty officer. Things were calming down a bit. People had been soothed by White House assurances and by the tack adopted by the media, which were downplaying the comet and portraying those who took to the roads as cranks.
The transportation secretary should have been gratified. But the truth was that the administration's position was a gamble. Tens of thousands of lives might be lost if they guessed wrong. Boatmann wondered how he would live with that kind of burden.
He picked at his breakfast and finally gave up on it, taking his coffee into the living room, where he sank into an upholstered chair. He propped his feet on a hassock, set the cup down on a side table, and stared at the row of framed photos on the mantel. The room was still dark, the shades drawn against the morning light, the photos hidden in shadow. They were his son and daughter and a bevy of grandchildren, in-laws and cousins, friends from earlier days now scattered around the country. And a photograph of himself and Margaret and the president, taken on the White House lawn during a signing ceremony. His thoughts kept returning to yesterday's White House meeting.
We'll ride it out. We'll hope for the best, ride it out, and look to get lucky.
Boatmann couldn't get past the reality that if he were living in Miami, he'd want the truth. The notion that the president and his advisors were sitting on dangerous information, not sharing it with the people most at risk, had potentially appalling consequences. If things went the wrong way, that could be enough to bring the government down.
Boatmann's vision blurred. He divided the people in the mantel photographs into two groups: those who were safe, and those who were not. He had already warned some. Several, for one reason or another, he had not been able to find on short notice, and he was too discreet to leave messages on answering machines. But he'd try again today.
He stirred himself, got up, drew the curtain aside, and peered out into the morning. The sky was slate-colored and the air smelled of approaching rain. Wisconsin Avenue was unusually quiet.
His anguish was compounded by the knowledge that the president was right: A mass exodus from the coastal cities would cost lives. What were the odds that cometfall might indeed amount to nothing more than a few late-night meteor showers? There seemed to be no answer to that question. He had spent much of yesterday, after the cabinet meeting, on the Web and on the phone. Nobody knew.
But it seemed inherently dishonest to withhold what they really believed. No matter the motivation. The system only works when there is an honest compact between government and governed.
Easy to say. But how was he going to justify it to himself if he set off a panic?
His coffee had gotten cold. He poured another cup. After a while he reached for the phone.
3.
Moonbase, Grissom Country. 8:05 A.M.
The vice president's call had come late the previous night, with the suggestion that Rick prepare appropriate remarks for a televised news conference today. A good opening statement. We want to be upbeat, Charlie had said. We should probably admit the uncertainties of the situation. But we're in the hands of good old American technology. We and our foreign friends are going to come through, blah, blah, blah. The president wants us to focus attention on Moonbase problems. He's hoping we can divert the public's attention and stop them from jamming up the highways at home. His voice had taken a strange tone. Charlie rarely showed negative emotions about others, but he'd sounded irritated with Kolladner. While you're at it, prepare a list of likely questions I'll be asked. And recommended responses.
Not that you'll use any of them, Rick had thought.
Anyhow, Rick arrived at the vice president's door loaded with suggestions. Charlie's voice invited him in. He was sitting on the sofa, turning pages in a notebook. "Good morning, Rick," he said. "I have some ideas how this should sound."
"Are they that nervous at home?" Rick asked.
"I understand the situation's improving. But the Man is uncomfortable. And he has reason to be. You ever play poker with him?"
Rick hadn't. But he knew the president's reputation. Kolladner didn't play now, of course. There'd be no way to keep it from the media, and the public could be made to frown on a poker player in the White House. It would be the kind of thing the talk show hosts and the late-night comedians loved.
"He's always claimed," Charlie said, "that he never bluffs. It isn't true, of course. But it makes the bluff effective."
"He's bluffing now? About Saturday night?"
"Yeah, I think so. He's scared."
Rick nodded. "If the worst happens, he could lose both seaboards."
A muscle moved in Charlie's jaw, but he said nothing.
Rick, who had an elemental dislike for downbeat conversations, waved it away. "I made some notes on how I think we should handle the news conference."
"Good. It's scheduled for eight. Prime time, all networks and Weblinks. There'll be several guests, including some groundside scientists who think there's really nothing to worry about. They've even got one who swears the comet's going to miss. They're going to have Kendrick anchoring the thing. He'll ask a few questions. I'm sure you can imagine what they'll be. And we want soothing answers." He sat back and looked closely at Rick. "Henry wouldn't admit this, but if I'm reading correctly between the lines, I think the fix is in. I wonder if the president has heard more than he's admitting."
"It's the wrong move," said Rick.
"Why? What makes you say that?"
"It's just going to stir up the people who think there is a major problem. I guarantee you, within an hour after the telecast, every Ph.D. who disagrees will be holding a press conference of his own. Our best bet would be to say as little as possible, photograph the president going about routine business, and for God's sake make sure they get pictures of his wife and grandkids down on a Florida beach."
"It's too late for that now."
"I guess. You know, I hate to criticize a colleague, but the president needs a decent press secretary." Rick sighed. "I saw some reports from your home state. Everybody's clearing out. Headed west."
"I think I would, too," said Charlie.
"Yeah," said Rick. "Especially after we tell them tonight there's nothing to worry about."
• • • Percival Lowell Utility Deck. 8:14 A.M.
Rachel received the mission postponement order while her second shipment of passengers were coming aboard.
MARS FLIGHT CANCELED. NEW DATE NOT ESTABLISHED.
Lee Cochran was in back getting everyone settled. Rachel ran a copy, and when the bus had pulled away, she strolled back and showed it to him. He nodded, showing no emotion. "I wonder," he said, "if the mission will ever happen."
Lee's comment stuck in Rachel's mind while she stayed to help get everyone settled. It won't be that way, she thought. We have the instrument to break out into the solar system; and whatever happens here, we'll go.