He'd have liked to stop and secure it. But he felt extraordinarily weary. His bag wouldn't clear up, so he was having trouble making out details around him. And he suspected some of the blood was inside the bag.
It was hard to concentrate. Something touched his arm and his hair stood upright.
Bigfoot's helmet.
His hand closed on it and he had to think.
Hold on to it.
The locker. Where was the locker? He tried to remember. The part of his mind that remained clear seemed to be shrinking into a corner back in his head somewhere, somewhat like the effect that nitrous oxide produces in a dentist's office. He tried to fight it off. It occurred to him that he could no longer see the outside warning lights. But Saber could use the intercom to speak directly to C deck.
Right?
But there was no air. No medium to carry the sound.
There were three lockers, she'd said. It was in the middle one. He pushed past tanks, cables, shelving. Feeling his way.
He turned a corner. Drifted off the deck. Found a handhold, the side of a storage bin, something, and pulled himself back. And in this tortuous manner, half-blinded, operating out of a state that was neither rational nor deluded, he found the storage cabinets.
He opened the middle one and felt the suit. And another helmet. Take both. Bigfoot's might be damaged. Wouldn't want to have to do this again. No sir. This was too much even for the vice president of the United States. He wrapped the helmets in the suit.
He got back to the airlock, pushed the presspad, and watched the inner hatch close. He settled in to wait, and a minute went by before he realized he didn't need to bother because the outer hatch was already open, had been open.
Make sure you've still got the suit.
He did, and he felt for his ladder up the face of the moonbus. He didn't need it really. He could just lean out and launch. (He giggled at the thought.) Grab the hatch as he went by. Nothing to it.
In fact, he wasn't sure which way was up. The ladder went in both directions. Which way was the passenger cabin and which way the treads? He went back inside the airlock-better safe than sorry-found the control panel, wiped a smeary arm across his bag-helmet, and tried to read the markings. But he could see nothing.
Which way?
Then he remembered the airlock benches. They were for sitting, so they had to be near the floor. Down. He wanted to go the other way.
He found the benches, returned to the outer hatch, and checked the p-suit again. God help him if Saber had to start the engine. He seized a handhold and started up.
It had been a mistake not to count the handholds coming down. He thought there'd been eight or nine. Or maybe thirteen. (He chuckled again.) But he was counting now as he climbed, and at six he began feeling for the hatch to the passenger cabin airlock, although he knew it was too soon. At thirteen, he still hadn't found it. He considered tearing the bag off so he could see.
Exhale.
What would happen if he missed it? Did the handgrips go completely around the bus? He visualized himself climbing forever, going round and round.
Take off the bag. Roll the dice and settle it.
Could he get inside before the vacuum killed him? Who knew? Certainly not Vice President Charles L. Haskell. He wondered what Sam would think if he could see him now.
And his fingers closed around the hatch.
TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 3:53 A.M.
"This is Keith Morley on board the vice president's moonbus. Just minutes ago, Vice President Haskell successfully concluded an incredible rescue effort outside the ship…" Micro Passenger Cabin, 4:07 A.M.
"Yes, Al, what is it?"
"Are you all right, Charlie?"
"I'm fine." That was hardly true, but considering the condition he might have been in, he was doing damned well. "I understand things are not so good at your end."
"Yes. Miami Beach, New Orleans, completely destroyed. Eastern seaboard hit from Maine to the Florida Keys. Not as hard. Not total. But it's-" His voice broke and he began to sob softly. Al Kerr.
Evelyn was climbing down from the flight deck, where she'd been in radio contact with Saber. She nodded and elaborately removed her oxygen mask.
"They're estimating tens of thousands of casualties," Kerr continued in a voice only slightly less shaky. "But God knows what the count really is."
Charlie's eyes squeezed shut. He thought of his own father and cousins, living at the Cape.
"It's a goddammed disaster, Charlie. I don't think any of us had any idea-"
"Okay." Charlie was trying to absorb what Kerr was telling him.
"Something else. I don't know whether you've heard or not, but the other plane is missing. Maybe it's just a radio failure. I know they lost contact with you for a couple of hours, too."
"The other plane? The one Rick's on?"
"That's what they're telling us. I don't think they're hopeful. I'm sorry." There was a long pause. "Charlie, right now it looks as if there'll be a million dead before this is over. The president would have talked to you himself, except that he's buried right now. You understand."
Buried.
"Charlie, you should be aware there's some doubt here whether the country can survive this."
"Yeah," he said. "I can see where there might be."
"Henry wants you to put the best possible face on things. Stay upbeat. I mean, you're our point man on this. You've been there."
"Al, you sound like Rick."
"Yeah. I guess in the end we all end up sounding like Rick. Listen, what were you doing outside the ship? Isn't that dangerous?"
"It's a bus."
"Whatever."
"I was trying to get a hatch open."
"Okay. Don't do it any more, okay? Meantime, we'll get out a press release. Haskell Takes Charge, right?"
"Let it go," said Charlie.
"Charlie, I think the president will insist. Listen, we need all the PR we can get."
Charlie didn't particularly like the president. But he knew that Henry took the job seriously, and had to be suffering all the torments of hell now. He wasn't a man to write off losses, to recognize that there were some situations in which you simply acted the best you could and hoped for the best. Charlie knew that Henry would be blaming himself. He could almost hear the president's explanation: Charlie, we should have started the evacuations right away. We were too worried about what we'd feed them away from their homes. We were worried about traffic jams, for God's sake. So they'd guessed wrong and a lot of people had died.
But Charlie knew that if he'd been there, he'd have found no fault with the course of action. He'd have gone along, thinking they were doing the right thing.
For a few moments, the responsibility of the office touched him. He wondered now for the first time during his political career whether he really wanted to become president of the United States. Suddenly it was a dark and fearsome vision.
When he got home and things settled down, he'd rethink things. Maybe withdraw his candidacy. It wasn't really that he was frightened of the office, but he needed to recognize his own limitations. The next president was going to be facing a wrecked nation. The simple truth was that they'd need someone better than Charlie Haskell. Charlie might have been okay for good times; but the United States had been plunged into a monumental disaster. The nation needed a Lincoln. Or a Teddy Roosevelt.
Where in hell were they going to find one?
Immediately after Kerr got off the phone, Saber reappeared at the airlock. She looked pleased with herself, and Charlie was happy for her. "You can't beat duct tape," she announced. And then she looked at Charlie, strapped down, his seat lowered. "You don't look so good." She wanted to give him something to help him sleep, but Charlie refused. Not tonight, of all nights. As if he could do something to help.