Skyfall

Nothing happened this time either and Patrick stabbed down again and again on the button until his thumb hurt. “All right, what's next?” he shouted. “Are you going to fix those engines or do we separate?”

“Separation in a few minutes. We want to be sure you will have enough time for running up the nuclear engine before separation.”

“That would be a good idea, wouldn't it.” Patrick disconnected Mission Control with a savage flick of the switch, then talked to the crew.

“Did you all follow that? It should have all gone on intercom.”

“It did,” Coretta said. “But — I'm going to be a fool — what was it all about?”

“Simple,” Ely said. “If we do nothing we hit the atmosphere in a day's time and turn into one of those nice shooting stars that young lovers like to look at at night To prevent that we hope — I think hope is the right word — hope to use my engine which does not have the thrust and was not designed for this job. The only cheering note in this otherwise depressing situation is that I have been doing sums on my calculator. The computer will do a better job, but it looks like we will be able to get out of this orbit — but we had better get rid of that dead weight on our tail and start firing as soon as we can. I'm unstrapping and getting down to the engine now…”

“Hold it!” Patrick said. “On the couch until I say get up. I'll query them on this. Mission Control, do you read me?”

“Roger, Prometheus. You will have thrust for orbital maneuvers with the atomic engine. Burn should begin soonest. Prepare for staging separation.”

Ely laughed. “Just what I said, only a bit more pompous and long-winded. Tell them to blow the damn bolts or whatever so I can get out of bed and on with the job.”

“Separation.”

The explosive connections that held Prometheus to the booster behind it were felt only as slight thuds in the flight cabin. Patrick actuated the TV camera and relayed the signal back to Mission Control. They would take over control of the booster now and bring it back to Earth safely. If they could.

“Look at that!” Patrick choked out the words. “Mission Control, look at your screen. Do you see? The core body hasn't separated. It's attached to us at an angle. Maybe one of the connectors didn't blow. I don't know. But whatever happened that thing's still on our back. And while it's there we can't fire the nuclear engine. Do you hear me, Mission Control? You have to do something about that thing and goddamned quick. Because if you don't, this mission is going to end in the biggest fireball you've ever seen.”

14

GET 01:38

“This is going to mean replating the front page and we're forty minutes late on the streets already,” the Mechanical Superintendent said as he looked at the new layout.

“I don't give a damn if it means feeding your mother through the presses,” the City Editor told him. “This story's breaking at the right time for us, and I'd do this on my own, but God had me on the phone and this is the way he wants it, too.”

When the owner of the newspaper spoke the employees simply nodded and did as they were told. The circulation of the Gazette-Times had been falling steadily and anything that might give it a shot in the arm would help. The Mechanical Superintendent opened the door of his walled-off glass cubicle in a corner of the composing room and went out into the hum and roar of a newspaper being put to bed. At their stones the compositors never looked up, light seared out on one side as an engraver exposed a plate. The Mechanical Superintendent had problems of his own and almost ran into the small man who bobbed up in front of him waving a sheet of paper.

“Out of the way, Cooper, or I'll run you down.”

“Listen, you must look at this. Imperative.” The Science Editor was a shaggy man with long hair that hung in his eyes more often than not, who had a tendency to chew, unknowingly, his ink-stained fingertips.

“Later. We're changing the whole damn paper around after a message from God so I got no time for your latest breakthrough on the deodorant front.”

“No, not that, you must listen. The rocket…”

“Move! I got a whole front page full of rocket. In twenty-four hours it's going to burn and those six nice people with it!”

“What's the shouting about?” the City Editor asked as he squeezed by them.

“This, sir, I tried to stop him. Change the front page, I have the story here.”

The City Editor halted and turned on his heel and looked down at the excited man. He had been too long in this business to ignore anything that might be news. “Sixty seconds, Cooper, and it had better be good.”

“It is, sir. Incredible. This rocket, sir, Prometheus, the one in the decaying orbit. There's a good chance it's going to hit the atmosphere and burn up in less than a day.”

“That's our front page story.”

“But there's more to it than that! Prometheus is the largest object ever to be put into space, it weighs two thousand tons and that's a lot of mass. When it hits the atmosphere and burns it will be a most spectacular sight….”