Gates found himself holding his breath, a little surprised that a simulation could create such a feeling of tension. As an astroliner pilot, he’d spent many hours in simulators learning to cope with whatever the instructors might throw at him: main engine failures, throttle failures, reaction control system failures, attitude control system failures, even computer failures, but never anything like this — so many other malfunctions were always more probable than the scenario that was about to unfold. But then unpredictability was, as Simou had argued, the hallmark of any bona fide accident.
Suddenly, a loud bang — louder than Gates had been anticipating — rocked the Mariner, blasting a tiny hole no bigger than a pinhead through the cockpit fuselage and setting off the master alarm. Gates shuddered involuntarily, genuinely scared by the actuality of what had apparently happened. The urgency in his voice was real enough.
‘Jesus Christ, we’re losing pressure. Go to oxygen. Close off mid-deck.’
Dallas jumped from his seat to close the interdeck access hatch. At the same time he pulled down the visor to his helmet and switched on his own oxygen.
‘Hatch door closed,’ he confirmed, and then buckled himself back into his seat. He heard another loud bang as the Mariner’s reaction control system rockets fired to correct the RLV as it rolled around its own longitudinal axis in response to the propulsive action of the cabin air venting into space.
‘We’ve been hit by something,’ yelled Lenina. ‘Must have been a small meteorite.’
They heard another loud bang as the primary thruster fired. From inside the Mariner it sounded like a cannon going off. This time the RLV began to pitch around its own transverse axis. The primary thrusters, used for rapid rotations or for moving the RLV sideways in orbit, were proving much too powerful for Gates to use in attempting to steady the spacecraft.
‘Switching off primaries,’ he yelled. ‘Going to stick control.’
The vernier thrusters, a smaller type of thruster, had a gentler effect on the RLV’s orientation; these were operated by the ship’s computer and fired in response to the motion and direction of the flight stick.
‘We’re going to have to abort to landing,’ declared Gates.
‘Got a lot of pressure building up in those maneuvering fuel tanks.’
‘Forget about it,’ said Gates. ‘Just look for a landing site.’
Lenina was already looking out of the window.
‘This is all high ground,’ she reported. ‘You couldn’t land a football around here. Wait a minute.’ She was looking at the computer now. ‘There’s a landing facility on the Moon map. Dead ahead. Ten miles. How’s that for luck. It’s restricted, but maybe they’ll let us land. Can we make that?’
Inside his helmet Gates felt a bead of sweat roll down his face and onto his lips. It tasted of salt. But was the taste real, or synthetic?
‘Incoming transmission,’ said Lenina.
‘This is the First National Blood Bank at Descartes Crater,’ said the voice. ‘You are approaching a restricted area. Please turn left onto a heading of one-zero-zero, and increase your altitude to two thousand feet.’
‘Negative to that, Descartes,’ said Gates. ‘We have an ATL emergency here. Requesting permission to land.’
‘Permission denied. I repeat, this is a restricted area. Without proper authorization you cannot ATL here. Our landing area is laid with antispacecraft mines.’
The RLV shuddered as Gates tried to hold her steady.
‘I’m not talking about a flat tire, Descartes,’ he yelled. ‘We are venting air. Repeat, we are venting air. We’re coming down with or without your permission. Passing you by is not an option. We’ll have to take our chances with your mines.’
‘Pressure still building in those thruster tanks,’ Lenina said coolly.
‘If we close the valves, we won’t even make it as far as Descartes,’ Gates shouted back at her.
‘It’s that, or blow up,’ she told him.
‘Shunt some of the propellant into the main fuel tanks. Jesus Christ, do I have to think of everything?’
‘Shunting propellant.’
With his hands gripping the armrests of his seat, Dallas glanced out of the flight-deck window. He could see the main facility in front of them now — like a gold coin lost on a volcanic beach. ‘There it is,’ he said. ‘Dead ahead.’
‘Dead’s about right, unless we get permission to land,’ said Gates, as he swallowed deeply. This was proving to be much more realistic than he had ever bargained for. His heart was beating as if he’d run up several flights of stairs. Even if they did receive the Descartes computer’s permission to land, bringing the Mariner down wasn’t going to be easy. With each touch of the flight stick the RLV pitched from side to side.
‘Mariner, please transmit all flight data and CVRs for verification of your emergency situation.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Lenina. This was what they had been waiting to hear, and she immediately ordered the flight computers to comply. ‘Sending flight data and CVRs.’
‘Received,’ said Descartes. ‘And analyzing.’
‘Make it fast,’ said Gates as he wrestled to control the unwieldy craft. ‘We’re committed to an ATL whether you like it or not.’ He throttled back the main engines to less than 10 percent of power and dropped the undercarriage. They were losing altitude fast now. The landing area was less than a mile away. In just over a minute they would be down on the ground, whatever the computer decided.
‘Descartes, this is Mariner. What is our landing status?’
There was no reply on his headset. Less than half a mile now. He glimpsed the whole facility ahead, golden in the sunlight, like the lost city of El Dorado.
‘Thirty seconds to landing,’ said Lenina.
The Mariner shuddered again.
‘I wish I could control this damned roll,’ said Gates. ‘Damn it, Descartes, what is our status please?’
Still no reply. Gates was starting to wonder what it might feel like to be blown to pieces in a simulation. He knew you could experience great pleasure — he’d had enough Simsex in his time to know the truth of that — so why not great pain, too?
‘Hang on, everyone,’ he said into his mike. ‘We’re going down.’ The strain of the moment was in his voice for everyone, including the computer, to hear. A hundred yards to go and still no answer. ‘Is there anyone there? Please, someone.’
Even as he spoke, he recognized the futility of his words. The facility at the First National was unmanned. Descartes was all there was. It was just a computer between them and simulated oblivion.
‘Here we go...’
‘Mariner, you are clear to ATL. All mines have been disarmed.’
Gates did not reply. It was too late to say anything at all. The landing site rushed up at him and was obliterated by the RLV’s giant shadow. The next second they were down on the ground with a loud bang, like the sound of a fast-moving truck hitting an enormous bump in the road. Quickly, Gates hit the engine stop button and said, ‘Shutting down engines.’ Then he collapsed back in his seat, already exhausted.
Lenina started to go through the checklist that automatically followed any landing. Gates turned around to look at Dallas. The two men grinned at each other and exchanged a punched handshake in silence.
‘Descartes, this is Mariner,’ said Lenina. ‘We’re on the ground.’
‘Mariner, we copy you on the ground.’
‘Stand by, Descartes,’ she said, and switching off the open channel, she began to key their new status into the flight computer.