EMERGENCE (38 page)

Nor have I ever allowed my own involvement to influence my observations and/or conclusions. So far, that is. I wonder if I have this time. I'm very uncomfortable about this. Lisa is my baby, my first born, all that remains of the love I shared with Jason. I may, in fact, be guilty of resisting the conclusion that a growing body of evidence increasingly suggests:

Lisa or Terry, or both,
may,
through some unknown mechanism, be in touch with Candy. I can't imagine how they could be, but neither can I prove that they aren't. If they are, they're not any clearer about how it works than I am—and
whatever
it is, if anything, it's not directional; Lisa has no more idea where Candy is than I do.

I've tried to question her about how she knows whatever it is she thinks she knows, but I haven't had much luck with it. I don't think she's being deliberately evasive, but somehow every conversation ends up back where it started, with no identifiable information changing. hands. When I tried to find out what she and Terry were doing right after we lost Candy's signal, for instance, it went like this:

"Lisa, what were you and Terry doing? Were you playing a game?"

"We were going
fast.
"

"But you were sitting in a chair. How could you be going fast?"

"Candy was going fast."

"But Candy wasn't here."

"No; she was going
fast
."

"But if she wasn't here, how do you know she was going fast?"

"I felt fast."

"What felt fast?"

"Candy."

"But she wasn't here?"

"No; how could she be here and go fast?"

"Well, where did the feeling come from?"

"From Candy."

"Oh. What did it feel like?"

"Fast, it felt
fast
!"

"What felt fast?"

"Candy did."

"How did you know she went fast?"

"By feeling it."

"But how could you know that, sitting in a chair?"

"By feeling it."

"Feeling what?"

"We were going fast."

An alternate ending to this conversation is a blank look and "I don't know."

I'm beginning to suspect that part of the problem is that Lisa and I don't share common referents to describe what she's trying to tell me. This could give the term "generation gap" a new lease on life.

A week now, and still no sign of Candy.

We're not a happy group: Adam's determination has taken on overtones of desperation. Lisa has been uneasy this past couple of days as well. She still insists that Candy is fine, but admits that she's "awful busy, and kind of scared." Which describes my own feelings in a nutshell.

Even Terry is no longer his usual carefree self. He's still eating enthusiastically, so I'm not worried that he's working on the Ellery Green syndrome, but he's growing more subdued day by day.

Apart from that, he's just plain driving us mad! His vocabulary has shifted back into high gear. He's talking absolutely nonstop again, employing words in combinations that none of us have ever used in front of him, forming sentences that he simply can't have heard before anywhere.

His behavior defies rational explanation. When Candy was here, we could speculate that he was taking it from her thoughts somehow. But she's not here; and even if she were, her presence would hardly explain
this,
delivered in fits and snatches over the course of several days:

". . . yellow stripe on green first, then black stripe on green,
then
solid red. Right?
Stupid cam-latch . . . !"

". . . if the total is larger than sigma, colon; go to sub-YBVD. If larger than lambda, colon; go to sub-YBVE. If less than sigma, go to sub-YBVF . . ."

". . . twist right and pull. I mean
left
!—I'm sorry, I'm
sorry
!"

Lisa says she knows where he's getting it, but her explanations haven't shed any more light on this than they have anything else.

Lord, I wish we
knew
something. The only thing worse than uncertainty is—probably the truth. . . .

This has been a bizzare day. Unproductive and disturbing, but especially strange!

There's still no sign of Candy after nine days—unless you count the inexplicable conduct involving Lisa and Terry, which I find very difficult to credit.

Adam doesn't believe it at all. He's quit putting up a brave front; he hasn't smiled practically since we got here, and now he's almost stopped talking. He continues to search, grimly, determinedly, refusing to admit the possibility of defeat, but without hope.

Lisa isn't very cheerful anymore, either. She says that Candy is frightened and has been growing more so daily. She doesn't know why, but it scares her as well.

Actually, none of us are too spritely. It's as though some sort of pall has settled over the forest. I've been having this growing sense of impending doom for days now. I try not to let it show around Lisa, but every day it gets harder.

And Terry's behavior steadily becomes more unusual. This morning he launched into a monologue before sunup. I heard it from the beginning—ever since having Lisa, any unusual sound wakes me instantly. And this, even compared to his normal behavior these days, and apart from the hour he started, was
unusual.

It began with a singsong voice in the darkness: "Control, this is
Nathan Hale.
Radio check."

"Wha—huh?
Now
what?" muttered Adam sleepily from the bedroom.

"Roger, loud and clear," came the disembodied reply.

Adam grumbled something about "dumb bird!" I heard his feet hit the floor. "I guess he means it. Well, the sun will be up soon. Might as well get up and eat so we can get going at first light." He stumbled from the bedroom and turned on a light; I shielded my eyes against the sudden glare.

Terry perched on one foot on his stand, eyes squinting, head tilted back slightly and sunk between his shoulders. He looked rather grumpy, as if
we
had waked
him.
"Inertial measurement unit alignment in progress," he said, yawning.

"This is a new wrinkle." I yawned back, stretching, standing, then folding the bed back into a sofa. I didn't wake Lisa, asleep on the converted dinette; at her age, she needs all the sleep she can get. Time enough when breakfast was almost on the table. "But sounds familiar somehow, doesn't it?"

"Uh-huh, I
have
heard this somewhere before," Adam replied, fumbling out cooking utensils and dishes. "But I can't think where. You want in the bathroom first?"

"Boiler control switch on. Nitrogen supply switch on."

"No; you cooked yesterday. You go first; I'll start breakfast."

"Hey . . ." Adam called from the bathroom after a while; "I know why that sounds familiar. Have you ever watched a shuttle launch on television?"

"You're right. Golly, doesn't that bird ever forget anything?" Something tugged at my memory. For a moment it eluded me. Then I had it: "Adam, I don't remember a shuttle named
Nathan Hale,
do you?"

"No."

A brief silence ensued, interrupted as Terry continued: "APUs powered up."

"Me either. This is his eeriest performance yet."

"Amen."

Adam emerged from the bathroom and regarded the bird in perplexity. "I hate it when he does stuff like this. It's positively scary. He smiled faintly. "But he certainly has the patter down perfectly. He makes me want to rush to the nearest television and watch."

"Me too." I could have kissed the silly goose; that was the first time Adam had smiled in days.

Perching relaxed on one leg, eyes half-closed, head tilted back slightly and sunk between his shoulders, Terry droned on: "Main engine gimbals nominal."

Adam sat on the couch. "What's for breakfast?"

"Oh-two vents closing. H-two pressurization okay—going for launch. . . ."

"Pancakes, bacon and eggs, cocoa, and orange juice," I replied.

"APU start is go," said Terry.

"Nectar of the gods," Adam approved.

"The on-board computer is on the job."

"I wonder how long he's going to keep it up," Adam mused. "He's just about through the launch sequence, if memory serves."

"Five, four—main engine start—two, one . . ."

"That long." I grinned.

". . .
zero
—solid booster ignition—
LIFT-OFF
. . . !" Terry shrilled the last two words, voice cracking, flapping violently.

Lisa shot bolt upright in bed and screamed. Her eyes stared, round and unseeing. She clutched at the bed as if to steady herself.

"Wow . . . !"
Terry was bobbing his head now; even I could recognize the manic delight in his expression.
"Wow . . . !"
he squealed again; "we're
boldly going . . . !"

Lisa's eyes cleared and focused as I reached her. She looked around dazedly. Then she closed her eyes again and—I swear!—she looked around
inside
the lids. "Gee," she breathed. "I thought I was dreaming. This is
neat
!"

Adam caught my eye. His brow crooked.

"Instituting roll," offered Terry.

"Lisa, honey," I said gently, "what's happening?"

She didn't answer for whole minutes. Finally I shook her gently. "Lisa?"

She opened her eyes. The faraway look was back.

"Main engine throttle-back," said Terry.

"Lisa?"

"Max Q.," said Terry.

"We're going
fast,
"
came the dreamy reply.

"What . . . ?"
said Adam, eyeing her sharply.

Now I regretted not having discussed with him my previous conversations with her on this subject. I shook my head quickly and intensely, indicated Lisa behind her back, and caroled, "We can talk about it
lay
-ter."

"Main engines back up to 100 percent."

Adam caught on but didn't look pleased. He stared across at Terry, still bobbing and flapping, and then down at Lisa's closed eyes and entranced expression.

"Solid booster separation," said Terry helpfully.

Adam's expression was a study in confusion and misery, untouched by hope. "We sure will," he muttered darkly.

VOLUME V

Revelation

Damn!
—hope this turns out legible. Easier things to do than trying to write Pitman shorthand while floating weightless in dark, scared to death, sole illumination furnished by flashlight wedged between hull braces, hand gripping pen encased in bulky EMU glove and possessing every reason to shake.

Never been so terrified in whole short, violence-prone life. Still not afraid of death per se—though if guessed wrong (as well may have, with limited data on which forced to make decision) impending demise promises to be painful enough to satisfy fantasies of even most demanding masochist.

No; fear based upon possibility might have guessed even wronger; in which case probably won't be physically painful at all: Instead will have several hours in which to dwell on consequences sure to befall family, friends—all my people.

Would accept eternity of physical torture to keep that from happening.

Yes, Posterity, it's me again: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, adventuress, aviatrix, heroine at large—
would-be
Plucky Girl Savior Of Our People—at your service.

So what's nice girl like me doing in place like this? Kind of thought that might be next question. Sweating, that's what—and trembling like leaf.

Plus working feverishly to complete account of past four days in wan hope that at least this record will survive next few hours; alert hominem community to continuing existence of implacable threat to species' very survival.

Modest enough ambition; and from cursory inspection of problem, odds slightly encouraging, given precautions now in works: Shall encase completed volume inside one EMU; place that inside another, stick that inside third. With thermostats turned down all the way, triple insulation should keep paper below magic 451-degree mark.

And EMU sandwich
better
protect volume; because if gets anywhere near that hot, as probably will, record inherits sole responsibility for passing on warning—Your Obedient Servant will have been parboiled in own juices long since.

(Don't like to think about that part—but important thing is this record
must
reach Teacher . . . !)

Suspect am rambling. Partially deliberate, partially self-indulgent: First, good therapy—trying to reestablish semblance of control over writing hand; reduce shaking to point where penmanship legible to someone besides own (probably, by then, dearly departed) self. And does seem to be working. Somewhat. Spastic scribbles clearing up perceptibly as necessary concentration on task blanks out distraction of surroundings, past horrific events, future possibly worse ones; pothooks starting to look purposeful again.

Self-indulgence therapeutic, too, Fair idea how much time remains before fate determined. Need to keep psyche occupied between now, then. Sure to lose control otherwise. And last thing need up here is screaming, arm-flapping, hysterical crazy. Particularly when crazy is self.

Okay, shaking under control now. Mostly. On with show:

Wakened at 3:30 A. M. , morning of launch, by Gayle, obviously trying not to cry. Felt sorry for her; pretended not to notice, engaged her in idle conversation, avoiding The Subject. Took advantage of opportunity for final luxurious hot shower—with
Nathan Hale
stripped of amenities, would be last opportunity.
Very
last . . . .

Pushed bleak awareness of impending doom into remote corner of mind; sternly told stay there, shut up; went to breakfast/farewell party. Harris Gilbert, Mission Commander, and Kyril Svetlanov, Russian bomb expert, both there already, together with everyone who could be spared from countdown duties.

My breakfast consisted of medium-rare filet; fluffy scrambled eggs on toast; pancakes with maple syrup; orange juice, milk; huge slab of rich, moist chocolate cake with thick, dark, almost-bitter chocolate icing. Wonderful . . . !