Skyfall

“Report that attempt is now being made for complete soft landing retrieval through orbital accelerating and braking. Details follow.”

“Roger.”

The teletype hammered again while O'Brian plugged into the communication circuits. The computer outside was in direct contact with the smaller computer aboard the booster, asking questions and getting answers. The attitude of the booster was most important; which way the nose was pointing, up or down, at the stars or at the Earth, was the first consideration. Since the faulted staging from Prometheus the core body had turned and was no longer in the correct attitude for acceleration into a new orbit. The maneuvering rockets would have to be fired to adjust the attitude. This would be the first test of their ability to control the great rocket, hurtling along in orbit eighty-five miles above their heads.

“Begin program,” Academician Tsander said calmly, when everything possible had been done.

“Rolling.”

It took some minutes for all of the data to be correlated and when it had been there was jubilation in the high chamber.

“The Russkies seem happy, Colonel,” Silverstein said.

“They're halfway home, Sergeant, you can report that orbital maneuver appears to be successful. Booster in correct attitude for firing of main rockets. If they fire — and don't send that last.”

“Gotcha, sir.”

This was the big burn and almost two hours passed before the program and responses appeared to be satisfactory. The faulty engine and its opposed engine should be shut down now. The original failure should have been bypassed. The fault that had prevented firing from Prometheus should have been corrected. It should fire correctly.

There are an awful lot of shoulds here, O'Brian thought, and was very glad indeed that this was not his decision. He poured coffee from the thermos and watched the countdown clock as it was set in motion. Here it goes, he thought, here it goes.

The count reached zero and the radio signal flashed out to the waiting receiver in the booster above. Unseen switches were thrown, the report of the monitors sent back instantly.

“We have ignition!”

There was controlled jubilation. A big success, for they had started the engines when the Prometheus team could not. So much for American engineering. These were Soviet boosters and they took well to Soviet control.

Then a needle snapped over, then another. The computer readout chattered and columns of figures appeared on the blank pages.

“There is trouble.”

“Firing has become erratic.”

“Shutdown!”

“Firing continues. Firing cannot be terminated.”

O'Brian spun about and shouted to Silverstein.

“Top priority. Ignition trouble on booster. Erratic firing. It appears to be out of control. More follows.”

“Is this bad, sir?” Silverstein asked, his fingers busy on the keys while he spoke.

“It's not very good, that's for certain. Just how bad it is we're going to find out very soon.”

22

GET 07:20- COTTENHAM NEW TOWN

What could she do, ohh, what could she do, Irene wondered despairingly. Yesterday evening Henry had settled himself at the kitchen table and written to the boarding house in Blackpool where they had stayed the last two summers. His ' holiday dates for the coming year had just been fixed and he was writing well in advance to reserve the same rooms again. He had given her the letter to post but it still sat on the mantelpiece resting against the china Blackpool Tower, fond memory of the city it was addressed to. But dare she post it? Just this morning, running short of money for the Sunday joint, she had taken the last penny out of the Post Office account. The last — she couldn't believe it. But it was all gone, every bit of it. Instead of the pounds and pounds that should have been there for the Christmas presents and next summer holiday there was nothing at all. Henry would find out, he had to find out sooner or later, and what would she do then?

Seizing her apron she pressed it to her face and sobbed, rocking back and forth in quiet agony. What could she do, what could she do?

Judy and May did not know of their mother's worries. If they had they might have cared, but not for long. Their lives contained far simpler problems: getting good enough marks in school without working too hard, getting new clothes, new shoes, things that were directly related to their new, suddenly overwhelming interest in boys — creatures considered as filthy pigs best avoided until a few short months ago.

Henry Lewis's body was tense, his toes against the hockey, his right arm raised, his left eye half-closed. With grim intensity, backed by years of practice and experience, he sighted along the steel point, drew his arm back — and let the dart fly. Bloody hell! A fraction outside the double seven that would have won the game.

“Well played, Henry!”

“At least you missed t'lav door.”