‘See anything?’ Gates asked anxiously. It seemed quite at odds with his astroliner pilot’s training that he should have been praying for something to go wrong now.
‘There’s a crack,’ reported Dallas. ‘In the ceramic-hafnium shield on the Mariner’s nose. And it’s getting bigger.’ As he watched, something detached itself from the nose and flew off into space. ‘We just lost one of the heat-shield tiles. And another.’
‘It sounds to me like it could be a brittle fracture,’ said Simou, choosing his words carefully. ‘The impact must have dispersed through the whole nose.’
‘There goes one more tile,’ said Dallas.
‘We lose too many of those and we’ll never survive Earth reentry,’ said Gates. ‘Perhaps we should put down and make repairs.’
‘Negative,’ said Dallas. ‘That’s the kind of repair we can easily make back at TB. We don’t need a ceramic-hafnium compound nose to continue with the flight.’
Gates slammed himself back in his seat and punched the armrests with frustration.
‘I suggest that we turn around and head back to TB,’ Dallas said evenly. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
‘Well that’s just great,’ groaned Gates. ‘What a vacation this turned out to be. Not even halfway to Schroter’s Valley and we’ve got to turn back again.’
Schroter’s Valley was the ultimate destination they had fed into the flight computer for the benefit of Descartes. Reluctantly, Gates started to reprogram the change in course. He did it in the knowledge that any delay to their plans at this stage would certainly cost Lenina her life.
‘We’re going back?’ On the headset Simou’s voice sounded incredulous.
‘If you’ve got any other ideas, I’d love to hear them,’ said Dallas.
Gates ceded control of the RLV to the autopilot, and immediately Mariner started to increase its altitude prior to firing the RCS[119] thrusters that would change their course. Seconds later they heard another explosion. For a brief second, Gates thought the RCS had fired prematurely. It was only when the master alarm finally went off and the static in his headset was replaced by shouts from mid-deck that he realized what had happened had nothing to do with the thruster rockets. A quick look up at the control panel revealed a whole host of red warning lights.
‘We just lost the flight computer,’ he yelled and grabbed back the flight stick.
More red lights.
‘And the environmental control system,’ said Dallas.
‘Prepare for ATL,’ swallowed Gates. ‘Go to oxygen, everyone. In a few minutes we’re going to have nothing to breathe in this cabin except our own CO2. I wish I knew what just happened and why. But without the flight computer I couldn’t keep this thing in flight even if I wanted to.’
‘There’s a landing site up ahead,’ said Dallas, still talking for the benefit of the Descartes computer.
And then, right on cue: ‘This is the First National Blood Bank at Descartes Crater,’ said the computer. ‘You are approaching a restricted area. Please turn right on a heading one-zero-five and increase your altitude to fifteen hundred feet. Failure to comply will be met with appropriate force.’
‘Descartes, this is Mariner. Negative to turning right on heading one-zero-five. We have an ATL emergency here. I’m not sure why, but we just lost all our computers. Requesting permission to land immediately.’
‘Are you in a position to supply appropriate flight data and your cockpit voice recordings?’ asked Descartes. ‘In order for me to verify your ATL condition for myself.’
Dallas was still trying to see what remained of their computer systems. ‘Descartes, this is Mariner. We have communications, mid-deck systems, but no flight computer, payload, or environmental control system. Mid-deck systems have backup data until the moment our computers went down. Transmitting that and our cockpit voice recordings, now.’
There was a longish pause as the Descartes Crater grew nearer. Gates was using the lip of the crater as his navigation marker and then aiming the nose of the Mariner a good distance ahead of it. He was flying on instinct now. Instinct and the seat of his pants. Without the flight computer to advise him, he was having to reduce altitude through experienced guesswork.
‘Descartes? This is Mariner. How are we doing?’
‘According to the information you have sent me, one of your oxygen tanks has exploded,’ said the cool voice of the computer. ‘All other failures are a corollary of that first failure. Alteration in levels of oxygen and hydrogen inside your fuel cells has starved your electrical circuits, causing some of your computer systems to shut down. However, since you have backup fuel cells, it’s quite possible your computers may be rebooting themselves even as we speak. Please advise.’
‘Thanks for your information,’ said Gates. ‘But it’s a negative on the reboot, I’m afraid.’ By now he had both hands firmly on the stick. ‘Drop the landing gear,’ he told Dallas.
‘Will it work?’
‘Pull those levers. The thing’s hydraulic.’
Dallas did as he was told and then breathed a short sigh of relief as he saw a green light and felt the undercarriage lowering beneath the RLV. ‘Landing gear operative,’ he said.
‘I appreciate your fault diagnosis, Descartes,’ said Gates, ‘but please be advised I need permission to ATL. It’s that or crash-land in Abulfeda.’ This was the large crater immediately southwest of Descartes.
‘Mariner, this is Descartes. Confirm you are clear to land. Repeat, confirm you are clear to land. Good luck.’
Gates had already started his final descent. Some of the others on mid-deck had cheered the computer’s permission to land, but he thought it was a little premature for any celebrations. Judging altitude above a moonscape by eye was extremely difficult, and even with the main facility to give him some idea of height, he wished he could have had some landing radar data to rely on. This was not going to be a seat-of-the-pants landing so much as the skin of his ass.
‘Bring it on down,’ he urged himself, through gritted teeth. Although it seemed hardly possible, this landing was proving even more hair-raising than the simulation. It was just as well that Descartes had turned out to be a little more cooperative than they had been expecting.
Mariner missed the northern rim of the crater by less than fifty feet. Gates throttled back quickly and let the RLV drop toward the crater surface, stirring up a small dust storm beneath them. Now that they were inside the crater he had a clear view of the landing site ahead of them, and for a split second, he wondered if the Descartes computer might even have been lying when granting permission to land. What if the mines on the landing area were still active? Why had the Descartes computer been so cooperative?
‘I sure hope this computer isn’t bullshitting us, Dallas,’ he said, and slowed the Mariner to a near hover.
‘Computers don’t lie,’ said Dallas, gripping the armrests of his seat. ‘Although they do have the kind of memory you need to carry it off successfully.’
‘I wish you were a bloody computer,’ said Gates, as he pushed gently at the flight stick. The RLV dipped again, and guessing that there was now less than seventy feet to the ground, he stretched out his hand, ready to hit the engine stop button the moment he saw the green contact light. His guess was off by more than thirty feet. The Mariner hit the landing area earlier and with much greater force than he would have wanted, and such was the strength of the impact that the resulting vibration shook every piece of equipment in the cabin, jolting the still unbuckled Dallas out of his seat, and causing all the computers suddenly to restart themselves. Gates killed the engines, the Mariner rocked on its landing gear for a few seconds, and then all was still.