Something was wrong. He was aware of it at once — and then he saw it. The countdown clock, there was one in every room, had stopped at 83:22.
“It's a hold,” he said. “Find out what's causing it while I get out of this thing.”
They were all in the main room when Patrick got there and Nadya was just hanging up the phone. “They haven't located the source of the trouble yet,” she said. “But all fueling has stopped.”
“That can be dangerous with the tanks only partly filled,” Patrick said.
It went on for almost five hours. Only Ely seemed untroubled by the hold, his nose buried in a chess book, replaying a master tournament. He had started a game earlier with Colonel Kuznekov, but they had to abandon it because the Colonel's concentration kept wandering to the motionless clock. The numbers were frozen still at 83:22. Less than twelve hours into the countdown and already a major hold.
The phone rang at the same instant as the numbers began changing again.
“Right,” Patrick said, “we see it. Good. Let's hope it goes on this way.”
It did, for one day, then two — then the third — and it was time to enter Prometheus.
“You know,” Coretta said, kneading her hands together. “It is one thing to say you're going to do something — and another to get around to doing it. You sure I can't have a drink, Patrick?”
“Contraindicated. No alcohol for jet pilots twenty-four hours before a flight. Forty-eight for us. Space flight's an uncompromising business.”
“But you and Nadya will be doing all the piloting. The rest of us are sort of passengers.”
“Sorry. You're crew. I don't think any situations will arise where we'll need your help at once. But it could happen. Relax. Think good thoughts.”
He reached out and held her arms, sharing his strength with her. She was frightened and they both knew it, and knew as well that she must get over it. The world was watching, literally. Watching the Launch Control countdown at this moment, but all cameras would be focused on the astronauts as soon as they emerged. His hands felt good and Coretta relaxed a bit, leaning forward and placing her head against his chest. There was perfume in her hair, just a trace, and he resisted the impulse to stroke it.
“I want a rain check on this,” he said. She turned her face up to his and smiled.
“You're very good for a girl's morale, Patrick. When we get back from this little pleasure trip I want to see more of you.”
“That's a promise.” He kissed her, and that was a promise too that they both understood.
“It's time,” Nadya said from the open doorway. “They are expecting us all.” Her face was expressionless, her voice toneless.
“We'll be there,” Patrick said, just as emotionlessly, not releasing Coretta until Nadya had turned and left.
“You and Nadya aren't quite the partners you should be,” Coretta said, straightening her hair in the mirror. She was calm now, the moment of panic past. Doctors aren't supposed to let their feelings show. You learned early to put on an assured air like a suit of armor. She could do it now — but she knew that she had needed Patrick's help, had appreciated it.
“We work together all right,” he said, then smiled and looked at the lipstick on his handkerchief where he had wiped his lips. “Let me tell you, this is a hell of a lot better than the all-man days at NASA.”
“I think you're oversexed and I'll give you some saltpeter pills to calm you down. You missed a spot on your lip, there. Come on, let's go.”
They were all there, dressed in silver one-piece suits. In the name of equality the Soviets had abandoned their usual red boiler suits, the Americans their blue ones. A compromise on silver, symbolic of the great silver wings that Prometheus would spread in space, had been made and that was what they wore. On each left breast was the symbol of Prometheus One. A star-shot disc of black space with the bold silver mirror of the solar generator in the center, as it would look when opened. To one side was the red star, on the other the stars and stripes; the red star appropriately to the left. (Though a letter to the London Times had pointed out that left was, heraldically, the right.)
Ely was standing on a chair and adjusting the focus of the television pickup. Kuznekov sat before the screen talking to the technician imaged there.
“A little up, there, that's fine,” the man said. “I would like the two outer books moved in a bit. Bit more, that's fine, a real winner.”
Patrick looked at the books on the floor that Nadya had been moving and his eyes widened. “Is it permitted to ask just what the hell is going on?”
“You might very well ask,” Ely said, climbing down from the chair. “Someone in high places has decided that our morale would be immensely improved if we had a chance to chat with B and P before the flight. They come on in a couple of minutes.”
“Not in the flesh, I hope.”
“God forbid. Bandin's in Washington, Polyarni in the Kremlin I guess. A miracle of misapplied technology will permit us all to talk together. Let's go.”