Skyfall

“Patrick, relax. Think clearly.” Flax had him by the arm, his fingers hot and damp through the thin fabric. “You've been in the space project what, nine years? It's your career and this flight is the topper, the big one, and you're the pilot. If you say anything you'll get chopped. The people who own the newspapers are on Bandin's side and they own the people who write for the papers. No one will ever know what you were talking about — and you'll be down the chute and out of a job. They'll make it look like sour grapes and crucify you. And Prometheus will still take off on schedule with another pilot. Is your backup as good a pilot as you? If not — you'll be jeopardizing the project. Just by opening your mouth.”

“It's dirty, Flax. You make it look black and white, but it's politics and it's dirty.”

“Patrick, you know better. It's all politics. Remember the old science fiction stories about rockets to the Moon? Some rich industrialist builds one in the back yard, or a mad professor puts one together out of wash boilers and off they go. None of those writers got it right. None of them ever wrote about middle-aged Army and Navy pilots landing on the Moon. None of them ever thought of the fact that the space race would be just that. A race. National glory and wave the flag. If we don't get there first the Soviets will. Hurry hurry and pour the money in, take chances and hope you luck out.”

“There's a car coming. And you're trying to tell me it's still that way?”

“You had better believe it. The Soviets have the big boosters. We've the rest of the hardware and the technology. Neither of them alone could get this project off the ground for another ten years — if then. Putting the cooperation package together has been the biggest piece of creative politics in the history of mankind. Don't louse it up at this late date. All right, Bandin's making political hay out of it. So what? If it works it works for us all and that's the name of the game, buddy boy.”

A black Lincoln Continental, American flag snapping on its hood, pulled to a stop outside. A full Colonel and one of the embassy aides climbed out, then turned to help the other passenger. Patrick watched, trying to hold down his doubts and his anger, still not sure what to do. A girl climbed out and walked towards the entrance.

She was here. Smallish, just up to the shoulders of the two men who flanked her. Dark skin, not very black but dark enough. Hair cut short and neatly curled. Pretty. Nice features, almost an Egyptian nose. Good figure too in the cream summer suit. Sound hips, practical legs, good walk. Christ, what was he doing? Judging a beauty parade or looking at the space medic who could make or break the flight?

Then they were inside and introductions all around. Her hand was cool, her grip firm. It didn't last long and then they were alone with Flax.

“I'm sorry to put you right to work, doctor, but the interview was scheduled….”

“Coretta, if you please Dr. Flax.”

“The same in return, Coretta. Flax is what everyone calls me. As you can guess we need good PR. Newsweek has seen things pretty much our way and they have a reporter out here now to do the lead for their special issue. Name of Redditch, one of their top people. He's talked to most of the others here and should have left but he waited for you. If you're not too tired.”

“Not in the slightest. It was a lovely flight, and I'm still excited. I'd love to talk to him.”

“Great. In here. Patrick, you know the way.”

It could have been no accident that the large window of the PR lounge faced the launching pad where Prometheus stood. The giant spacecraft was framed neatly and stood out against the rose clouds of dusk. Coretta stopped involuntarily and clasped her hands together.

“Ohh, my goodness! That is something, really something!”

“May I quote you on that?” he asked, a thin stoop-shouldered man by the bar with a drink in his hand. He had big ears and a potato nose and radiated a sort of shambling good will. But his eyes were attentive and he missed nothing.

“Dr. Samuel, this is Mr. Redditch of Newsweek magazine,” Flax said. “Would you like something to drink before we begin?”

“A bourbon on the rocks, not too strong.”

“I'll get it,” Patrick said, turning to the well-stocked bar. The best booze was always brought out for the press. He poured himself a large Chivas Regal with soda and a Jack Daniels Green Label for the girl. They were sitting round the coffee table now and the reporter had a tape recorder in the center of it. Flax shook his head no when Patrick lifted a drink in his direction, eyebrows raised. Patrick put the drinks on the coffee table and joined them.

“I hope you people realize that I'm no science reporter,” Redditch said. “Our technical boys have been producing figures and charts and we'll have plenty of that. But I'm doing the lead. I'll do the personal pieces, readers like personalities, and all the general non-technical stuff. All right?”

“Most fair, we're happy to help,” Flax said.