wearing a bright yellow shirt stenciled with palm trees and dolphins. “Run it again,” he said.
Penny McGruder nodded and keyed in the command. “It’s not going to look any different.”
A cursor moved unerringly toward a rendezvous with the Earth-Moon system. The comet was passing the Sun now. It would cross the orbit of Mercury later today, and that of Venus early Friday. It would close to within 384,000 kilometers of Earth. Where it would strike the Moon!
“Are we sure?”
They checked everything again.
Saturday night. At ten thirty-five EDT.
“Cardy,” she said, “this comet doesn’t obey the rules.”
He nodded and shrugged.
She highlighted the velocity: 480. What would it do to the Moon?
“It’ll be a hell of a show,” he said.
Beaver Meadow Observatory. 7:33 A.M. EDT.
Feinberg was ecstatic. Messages of congratulation had already begun pouring in. Tomiko was indeed an interstellar. But even given that, its velocity was difficult to account for. They would have to rethink some of their assumptions.
A variety of emotions washed through him when he saw it would impact on the Moon. There would be a magnificent display, and they’d have an unparalleled opportunity to observe their extrasolar visitor. Why, then, did he feel a sense almost of despair?
He’d have given much to see a mission to the comet. Who knew what they might have learned, given an opportunity to do an inspection. Perhaps they would even have uncovered the secret behind its velocity.
He’d given much thought to the matter. The object was billions of years old. Had to be. It had experienced a series of encounters, each accelerating it until it reached its present rate. It seemed a farfetched explanation. Yet, what other possibility was there?
Hoxon dithered about, worrying that Feinberg’s health would suffer if he didn’t “get out and get some fresh air.”
“In a while,” said Feinberg.
“Where’s it going to hit? Will we be able to see it?”
“It’ll impact on the back side.”
“That’s a pity.”
“Maybe not.” Feinberg let his concern show. “Giant comet coming hard.” He made a noise deep in his throat, and tapped a key. A single set of numbers appeared on the screen:
7×10 29
Hoxon made a face. “Energy release?”
“Approximately.”
“Wes, that can’t be right.”
Feinberg ignored the familiarity. “I’d like to think not,” he said. “It’s enough to take the top off the Moon.” He stared out at the cool green lawn, still damp in the morning light. “There might be a downside to all this.”
White House Dining Room. 8:04 A.M.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President.” Al Kerr, Henry Kolladner’s chief of staff, loomed in the doorway. He looked unhappy.
The president was seated at his breakfast table with the first lady. Emily Kolladner frowned. She had fought a losing battle for two years to guard the family’s privacy, before finally acceding to the reality that a president has no personal life. Henry had tried to find time for her; he usually rose early, worked two hours or so, and then joined her for a casual breakfast. It was supposed to be understood that the meal not be interrupted for any calamity short of nuclear war. Of course, that understanding had been violated almost daily. The first chief of staff, Kerr’s predecessor, had lost his job over the issue. Henry smiled at Emily, shrugged, and finished chewing a piece of bacon. “What is it, Al?” he asked.
Kerr stepped into the room and only then did Henry realize he wasn’t alone. A middle-aged, officious-looking woman entered behind him. He’d seen her before.
“Mr. President,” said Kerr, “you know Dr. Juarez.”
Yes. His science advisor. “Of course. Mercedes, how are you?”
Mercedes Juarez wore black slacks and a black jacket with a gold scarf over it. Her hair looked somewhat windblown and her eyes were dark pinpoints. “Quite well, thank you, Mr. President.” She opened a leather
Penny McGruder nodded and keyed in the command. “It’s not going to look any different.”
A cursor moved unerringly toward a rendezvous with the Earth-Moon system. The comet was passing the Sun now. It would cross the orbit of Mercury later today, and that of Venus early Friday. It would close to within 384,000 kilometers of Earth. Where it would strike the Moon!
“Are we sure?”
They checked everything again.
Saturday night. At ten thirty-five EDT.
“Cardy,” she said, “this comet doesn’t obey the rules.”
He nodded and shrugged.
She highlighted the velocity: 480. What would it do to the Moon?
“It’ll be a hell of a show,” he said.
Beaver Meadow Observatory. 7:33 A.M. EDT.
Feinberg was ecstatic. Messages of congratulation had already begun pouring in. Tomiko was indeed an interstellar. But even given that, its velocity was difficult to account for. They would have to rethink some of their assumptions.
A variety of emotions washed through him when he saw it would impact on the Moon. There would be a magnificent display, and they’d have an unparalleled opportunity to observe their extrasolar visitor. Why, then, did he feel a sense almost of despair?
He’d have given much to see a mission to the comet. Who knew what they might have learned, given an opportunity to do an inspection. Perhaps they would even have uncovered the secret behind its velocity.
He’d given much thought to the matter. The object was billions of years old. Had to be. It had experienced a series of encounters, each accelerating it until it reached its present rate. It seemed a farfetched explanation. Yet, what other possibility was there?
Hoxon dithered about, worrying that Feinberg’s health would suffer if he didn’t “get out and get some fresh air.”
“In a while,” said Feinberg.
“Where’s it going to hit? Will we be able to see it?”
“It’ll impact on the back side.”
“That’s a pity.”
“Maybe not.” Feinberg let his concern show. “Giant comet coming hard.” He made a noise deep in his throat, and tapped a key. A single set of numbers appeared on the screen:
7×10 29
Hoxon made a face. “Energy release?”
“Approximately.”
“Wes, that can’t be right.”
Feinberg ignored the familiarity. “I’d like to think not,” he said. “It’s enough to take the top off the Moon.” He stared out at the cool green lawn, still damp in the morning light. “There might be a downside to all this.”
White House Dining Room. 8:04 A.M.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President.” Al Kerr, Henry Kolladner’s chief of staff, loomed in the doorway. He looked unhappy.
The president was seated at his breakfast table with the first lady. Emily Kolladner frowned. She had fought a losing battle for two years to guard the family’s privacy, before finally acceding to the reality that a president has no personal life. Henry had tried to find time for her; he usually rose early, worked two hours or so, and then joined her for a casual breakfast. It was supposed to be understood that the meal not be interrupted for any calamity short of nuclear war. Of course, that understanding had been violated almost daily. The first chief of staff, Kerr’s predecessor, had lost his job over the issue. Henry smiled at Emily, shrugged, and finished chewing a piece of bacon. “What is it, Al?” he asked.
Kerr stepped into the room and only then did Henry realize he wasn’t alone. A middle-aged, officious-looking woman entered behind him. He’d seen her before.
“Mr. President,” said Kerr, “you know Dr. Juarez.”
Yes. His science advisor. “Of course. Mercedes, how are you?”
Mercedes Juarez wore black slacks and a black jacket with a gold scarf over it. Her hair looked somewhat windblown and her eyes were dark pinpoints. “Quite well, thank you, Mr. President.” She opened a leather
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