Coyote - A Novel of Interstellar Exploration Part 11

He'll let others read Gillis's fantasy novel. In fact, he'll have someone scan them into the s.h.i.+p's library subsystem. From what he's read so far, it seems harmless-tales of a prince wandering across an alien world, that sort of thing-and it might entertain the children. Yet no one else must ever know what Les had seen-what he thought he had seen- during his lonesome ordeal.

Things are much too complicated already.

UR55 rlrbrmr 8.28.2300 (12.8.2296 rel.) 1206 GMT "Gentlemen, ladies, may I have your attention, please... ?"

Lee patiently waits for everyone to quiet down; only a few seem to have heard him, so he raps his knuckles on the table. "If I could have your attention, please," he says again, louder this time, "we'll get started."

The noise gradually subsides as the crowd turns its attention to him. The mess deck is fiUed to capacity, and then some; with the exception of a couple of officers who have volunteered to remain on duty in the command center, every man, woman, and child aboard the Alabama has shown up for the meeting.

Every seat at the long benches that run down the center of the room has been taken; a couple of dozen people stand against the walls, while others sit cross-legged on the floor. A few are seated on the serving counter, and one person even stands upon the ladder leading down to the wardroom. No one's comfortable; the s.h.i.+p's mess was never intended to be occupied by nearly a hundred people at once.

"Thank you all for coming," Lee continues once the room has gone quiet. He stands at a table on one side of the compartment, the walls- creen behind him.

Seated on either side of him are the members of his executive staff. "Sorry about the crowded conditions, but it can't be helped. With any luck, this will be the last time we'll have to get together like this... or at least aboard s.h.i.+p. The next time we hold a general meeting, it should be where we'll have a bit more elbow room."

Laughter, some scattered applause. A small girl squatting on the floor-Marie Montero, if he remembers correctly-looks up at her mother, gives her a querulous scowl. "What does he mean?" she demands.

"What's so funny?" Rita shushes the child, then picks the girl up and settles her in her lap. Lee can't help but notice that the mother isn't smiling. flllen M. Steele She isn't the only one who's unamused. Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the compartment is Colonel Reese, flanked by his troops. Reese gazes stolidly back at him, his arms folded across his chest; Lee observes that, while almost everyone else has either found Alabama ball caps or, as many of the women have done, tied kerchiefs around their shaved heads, the soldiers are wearing their Service berets. He also notes that the civilians are giving them plenty of room; one of the soldiers has propped a foot upon a bench, arrogantly taking up a place where someone could have been seated.

No. This sort of thing can't go unchallenged. "I think we have another place where someone can sit," Leesays, then he turns toward the man standing on the ladder and points to bench where the soldier is resting his foot. "We've got a seat for you over here, if you want to take it." Then he locks eyes with the soldier.

"I'm sure no one will mind."

The guy on the ladder hesitates, then climbs down and makes his way toward the vacant seat. The soldier glares at Lee, then Reese whispers something to him, and he reluctantly removes his foot from the bench. The civilian sits down in front of him, careful not to look his way. A few murmurs from around the room, which Lee pretends not to notice.

"As I was saying," Lee goes on, "I hope this will be the last time we'll have to meet like this, or at least while we're still aboard s.h.i.+p. Our present ETA for arrival at our destination is about twelve days from now. By s.h.i.+ptime that's December 19, 2296... back on Earth, it's September 8, 2300. Since we're going by the s.h.i.+p's clock, the first date is the one that matters. Those of you whose watches are still on Earth-time will want to reset the calendar function to this standard. However, we'll continue to use Greenwich Mean Time for timekeeping purposes for a little while longer."

Although the flight crew nod, many of the civilians glance at one another in confusion. Lee was expecting this; indeed, that's the reason he called the meeting. "There's a lot about all this that may seem strange,"

he says. "Although the flight crew has been specifically trained for this mission, many of the civilians"-he tactfully avoids using the term D.I., with all of its connotations-"are unprepared for what lies ahead."

Lee reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a remote. "Our current position is here," he says, as a three-dimensional diagram of the 47 Ursae Majoris system appears on the screen behind him, a small blip moving just within the orbit of Wolf. "About nine days from now, we'll begin final approach to 47 Uma B..."

Another touch of the remote, and the third planet in the system expands to fill the screen, its satellites revolving around the superjovian. The captain explains the makeup of the three inner satellites and the two outer ones; this is all redundant information to his crew and the civilian scientists who worked on Project Starflight, yet there are quite a few spouses and children among them who may not know these things.

The screen expands again, this time to show a close-up of the fourth moon. Like the others, it remains a featureless sphere. "This is 47 Ursae Majoris B4, also known as Coyote. Until earlier today, this was as much as we knew about its physical appearance... everything else we knew about it was through infrared inferometry. A few hours ago, though, we were able to train the navigational telescope on Coyote, and this is what we saw."

As he turns toward the screen, he can hear the reaction: several audible gasps and whistles, murmurs of astonishment. Lee can't help but smile, for although the image is grainy and slightly out of focus, nonetheless it provokes wonder.

An earth-toned world, like a marble dyed in shades of green and light brown, crisscrossed by slender blue veins. There are distinct blotches of white at its poles-the ice pack at the north is slightly larger than the one at the south-and skeins of hazy clouds obscure areas north and south of the equator.

In a sequence of time-lapse photos, the planet slowly revolves on its axis, revealing a wide blue band that completely circles its equator. Oddly, the planet resembles the photographs made of Mars during the early twentieth century, the ones that led Percival Low- ell to believe that the red planet was inhabited by a ca.n.a.l-building intelligent race.

The new world. Lee's careful not to let his emotions show as he turns toward the crew and pa.s.sengers once more."There it is," he says quietly. "That is what we've come all this way to find."

Before he can go on, someone starts to applaud. It's picked by others; people begin rising from their seats, putting their hands together, shouting at the tops of their lungs. He looks across the room, sees only grat.i.tude, admiration, even adulation. Lee feels his face grow warm; be flllen M. Steele ing regarded as a hero is not something to which he's accustomed, nor was it something he ever expected. Embarra.s.sed, he looks away, only to see that his senior officers-Shapiro, Tinsley, Murphy, Okada-have also risen to their feet. Even Sharon Ullman, who hadn't been part of the conspiracy and who had to be subdued by force when they took control of the Alabama, has joined in.

And yet, even in this moment of triumph, a small voice of doubt nags at him. Once again he remembers the night in Arizona when he lay paralyzed with fear as a hungry coyote prowled around his makes.h.i.+ft sleeping bag...

So he takes a humble bow and says thank you a few times, all while gesturing for everyone to be seated.

After a minute or so the room grows quiet; this time the silence is respectful. He clears his throat and, not quite knowing what else to say, picks up where he left off.

"That's Coyote," he says, and raises his hand when someone tries to start the ovation all over again. "Its diameter is approximately 6,200 miles, and its circ.u.mference is 19,400 miles, with a planetary ma.s.s a little more than 75 percent that of Earth's. So it may be a moon, but still it's a rather large one... almost 30 percent larger than Mars. Which is why it's been able to retain an atmosphere..."

"But can it support life?" someone calls out from the back of the room.

"In the past couple of days, we've managed to confirm our previous information." Lee fumbles with the remote; a jagged bar graph is superimposed over the telescopic image. "Our new data shows the clear presence of water vapor, and since we've got absorption spikes... here and here, see... of carbon dioxide and ozone, that tends to indicate the strong concentration of atmospheric oxygen and nitrogen, and therefore chlorophyll-producing activity upon the surface.

So, yes, there's already life down there. The planet can support us."

More murmurs. Several people close their eyes, their shoulders slumping with released tension. A woman seated nearby raises her hand. "What about atmospheric pressure? Do we know anything about that yet?"

"We won't know for certain until we get there, but since the satellite... the planet, rather, for that's what it is, for all intents and purposes... is smaller and less ma.s.sive than Earth, we can be sure that the air is thinner. Probably more or less the same pressure as you'd find in high- alt.i.tude regions back home, such as in the Rockies. That may cause us some problems at first, or at least until we've become acclimated."

More hands are raised, but Lee quickly waves them off. "Let me get through this, please, then I'll field your questions."

He opens another window on the screen: more statistics, displayed in columns. "Fortunately, Coyote isn't rotation-locked. Its...o...b..t is far enough from Bear that it's able to rotate on its axis, with both hemispheres turning toward its primary during its day-night cycle, which lasts approximately twenty-seven hours.

Because Bear's located 2.1 A.U.s from its sun, which is beyond what has been previously considered to be the habitable zone, this should mean that Coyote is unable to support life. However, we've managed to confirm the theory that Bear reflects enough sunlight from Uma to warm the atmosphere sufficiently to allow for a greenhouse effect."

He points to the screen. "We've detected a strong magnetic field, which indicates that it has a nickel-ironcore... probably some tectonic activity, too, which is good. Dog, Hawk, and Eagle are located within Bear's radiation belt, but Coyote lies outside that, and its magnetic field and atmosphere should s.h.i.+eld us from any ionizing radiation. However, it's just close enough to Bear that the primary's gravitational pull probably draws away most meteors or asteroids, so we shouldn't have to worry much about large impacts. And although Coyote follows a circular orbit around Bear, Bear's...o...b..t around Uma is slightly elliptical. That means Coyote probably has a regular change of seasons, and since there's no axial tilt, conditions will be the same in both the northern and southern hemispheres. However, considering that Bear's sidereal period... its year... is 1,096 Earth-days in length, that means those seasons will be very long... about nine months on average. What effect this has on the native life-forms, we'll just have to see."

The room is quiet. Everyone gazes toward the screen, taking it all in. "Surface gravity is about 68 percent that of Earth's," Lee continues, pointing to another column. "That may sound good, but since we're also dealing with lesser atmospheric density, it doesn't necessarily mean we'll be any stronger.

Since Alabama is currently at .45 g's and decelerating, we'll probably feel pretty sluggish once we set foot on the surface. I recommend that everyone do the daily exercises Dr. Okada has prescribed.

Otherwise, we're going to have trouble walking when we get down there."

He points to another column. "However, this is what worries us the mo Hllen M. Steele most... surface temperature. From what we've been able to observe, the average nighttime temperature at the equator is about forty degrees Fahrenheit."

Low whistles from the crowd, and several people shake their heads. "However, bear in mind that we're looking at Coyote's far side... that is, the hemisphere that currently faces away from Bear. It's likely that the daytime temperatures on the near side may be much more temperate. Also, since Bear is about three-fifths of the way through its sidereal period, Coyote is currently going into what we might think of as late summer or early autumn. So although things are cooling off down there, it's not going to be that cold all the time."

Lee clicks back to the original image. "The fact that we're able to observe water channels tends to support this. The planet seems to be crisscrossed by a complex system of rivers and streams. No major oceans, just lots of channels... perhaps a couple of dozen, all interconnected to one another." He points to the irregular blue band wrapped around the center of the planet. "They seem to drain into a central equatorial river that gets broader on one side of the planet... almost the size of a large sea at one point.

Again, this is something we'll have to see once we get closer."

He puts down the remote. "Anyway, that's the good news. Coyote appears to be habitable. It may be a bit chilly when we get there, but we're prepared for that... we've got plenty of cold-weather gear in storage, and nuclear-thermal generators to keep us warm until we set up the solar farms. It won't be easy, to be sure, but we'll manage."

He glances at Tom Shapiro. The first officer says nothing, but nods ever so slightly. Next to him, Jud Tinsley stares down at his folded hands. Now comes the tough part...

"Here's the bad news." Lee's tone becomes more serious. "As many of you know already, we had an unforeseen... um, occurrence... during flight. One of our crewmen, Chief Communications Officer Leslie Gillis, was accidentally revived from biostasis about three months after we left Earth. We still don't know exactly why this happened, only that it was the result of a glitch in the s.h.i.+p's AI."

Here, he has to lie. Lee knows more about why Gillis was revived than anyone else aboard the s.h.i.+p, even Shapiro and Tinsley. But it isn't something he's willing to share with anyone, or at least not yet. "Mr.Gillis was unable to return to hibernation," he continues, "yet he survived for the next thirty-two years.

The murals in the ring corridor and coyotemi the wardroom are his work. You may have also noticed a fungal growth on some of the surfaces, such as on the windows. After he died, the food he left in the galley refrigerator went bad, and that caused a bacterial fungus to spread through certain areas of the s.h.i.+p. Dr. Okada a.s.sures me that it's harmless, but you should wash your hands if you've had any contact with it."

Uneasy looks pa.s.s from one person to another. Rumors had spread through the s.h.i.+p; now everyone knows the truth. "Les... Mr. Gillis... had to stay alive during this long period," Lee goes on, "and in order to do so he consumed rations that were meant to support the rest of us for our first year on Coyote." Now the expressions become those of alarm, even outrage. "We've taken inventory of our remaining rations, and have discovered the worst... our immediate food supply has been reduced by a little more than 30 percent. So instead of having a twelvemonth surplus of food, we're down to about eight months. Perhaps less."

Someone yells an obscenity; several others slam their hands against the benches. Muted comments roll through the compartment. "What about water and air?" someone demands. "Or did he use up all that, too?"

"Alabama's life-support systems were able to recycle his waste products into breathable air and water.

However, our reserves have been reduced by 20 percent.

We've got plenty of air and water for the next two weeks or so, but our time aboard s.h.i.+p has been decreased by a considerable factor. Whatever else happens, we've got to land soon." There's no sense in mentioning all the other things Gillis had used up- clothing, paper and pens, art supplies-and no one needs to know about the enormous quant.i.ties of alcohol he had consumed from the contraband liquor Tom reluctantly confessed to having smuggled aboard. "Our major long-term problem here is a shortage of food..."

"But seven or eight months..." Jorge Montero shrugs. "That should get us by, shouldn't it? At least for starters."

"They'll last for a while, yes... but by the time they run out, it'll be winter. As I said earlier, the seasons down there are three times as long as those on Earth. Even if we tighten the rations, we'll still run into severe shortages." Lee shrugs. "It doesn't make much difference, really. Even if we had full rations, a food shortage would have been inevitable. The rations were simply a precaution. What all this means is that we have to cut our survey time to a bare minimum, begin farming almost 1M flllen M. Steele as soon as we establish the colony, and pray that we have enough warm weather to bring up a substantial crop before winter sets in."

He picks up the remote again, uses it to display a schematic diagram of Alabama. "The cargo and hab modules are designed to be jettisoned from the primary hull and air-dropped to the planet surface," he says, pointing to the seven cylinders surrounding the s.h.i.+p's hub. "Over the next ten days we'll get them ready for that, with essential supplies being transferred to the shuttles. Then, on day eleven, we'll send an advance party ahead of us in one of the shuttles.

Mr. Shapiro here will lead that group."

The first officer briefly raises his hand, and the captain acknowledges him with a nod before going on.

"His team will locate a suitable landing site and ascertain that the planet is capable of supporting human life. By then Alabama will have achieved low orbit. If all works well, the first group of colonists will depart on day twelve, using the other shuttle to rendezvous with the advance team. Once they'reestablished a base camp, the first shuttle will return to Alabama to pick up the second group of colonists.

The second shuttle will then return to Alabama to pick up the remaining crew members-including me-who will by then have jettisoned the modules and repositioned the s.h.i.+p to permanent high orbit."

"And what if Coyote is unsuitable?" a woman asks. "I mean, what if the advance team discovers that we can't live there?"

"In theory, the colonists would return to biostasis while the flight crew studies our options... either return to Earth, or set out for another star that may have a planet capable of supporting life." Lee hesitates, and decides that telling the blunt truth is best for all concerned. "Realistically speaking, though, neither of those options is available. Alabama doesn't have enough reserve fuel left to achieve boost velocity, and if it can't attain 20 percent light-speed, the fusion ramjet won't work at maximum efficiency. We wouldn't be able to make it home, and we don't know of any other solar systems within our range that have planets capable of supporting human life. In other words, this is an all-or-nothing shot."

People s.h.i.+ft nervously in their seats, give each other uncertain looks. Lee waits a few moments, giving everything he just said a chance to sink in, before he continues. "That means we've got to pull together to make this work. Any differences you might have had... whether you were actively involved in taking this s.h.i.+p or resisted it, whether you were once a D.I. or a Liberty Party member... must be put aside and forgotten. That's all in the past now. We're all in the same boat."

He wants to say more, but it is not the time. Maybe once they're down on Coyote... "All right, that's it for now," he finishes. "Mr. Tinsley here will be drawing up rosters for the first and second landing groups.

We need to keep the groups evenly divided, but we don't want to split up families if we don't have to, so if you have any specific preferences, please see him. And if you've got any further questions, come to me or Mr. Shapiro." He waits another moment, then raises his hands. "Very well. Meeting adjourned."

As Lee steps away from the table, crewmen and civilians begin rising from their seats. All around him, voices rise once again as people turn toward one another. Some head for the ladder while a few move toward him and Shapiro. Someone laughs out loud at an unheard joke, and a couple of others join in: a good sign, or at least so he hopes.

The captain casts a wary glance toward the back of the room, catches a brief glimpse of Colonel Reese.

His men have gathered around him; it appears they're having a quiet conference. About what, Lee can only imagine; he can only pray that Reese has spoken sense to them. The captain picks up his remote, turns toward a woman who's waiting to speak with him...

And in that instant, through the crowd, he notices someone staring directly at him. A young ensign, in his late thirties, wearing an Alabama cap.

Eric Gunther: Lee recognizes him at once. Upon discovering the note Gillis left in his quarters, the captain checked his profile in the crew records. A recent FSA recruit, a.s.signed to the Alabama only a few months before launch. Member of the life-support team. Someone Lee had only met once or twice before, and then only very briefly.

In that brief instant, their eyes meet, and Lee sees only loathing, unforgiving hatred. Then Gunther turns away, melting into the crowd. Lee tries to spot him again, but he's already disappeared. There are too many people in the way... and Gunther, of course, doesn't want to be known by his captain.

Lee suppresses his apprehension; he turns his attention to the woman waiting to talk to him. Once again, though, he has heard a paw settle upon loose pebbles.

UR55 rlrbrmr 9.7.2300 (12.19.2396 rel.) 0912 GMTMuch to everyone's relief, the shuttles survived the voyage in satisfactory condition. Chief Monroe's engineers had spent the last two days inspecting the Jesse Helms and the George Wallace, entering the twin s.p.a.cecraft to check their avionics systems and going EVA to make sure that their hulls were intact.

Both shuttles had been drained of fuel shortly after Alabama had left Earth; yesterday hydrogen was reloaded into their wing tanks, the nuclear engines test-fired. After nearly forty-eight hours of round-the-clock preparation, Dana reported that the shuttles were flightworthy and ready to be taken down to Coyote.

Tom Shapiro picked the Helms for the survey mission; it was the same craft he had piloted from Merritt Island to Highgate, and not only was he familiar with the way it handled, but he also wanted to close the circle by landing the s.p.a.ceplane again, this time on the new world. Once the craft pa.s.sed muster with Monroe's team, Tom spent several hours in the c.o.c.kpit the night before, reacquainting himself with the controls and rehearsing emergency procedures that everyone hoped wouldn't be necessary. Sometime during the evening, though, a new thought occurred to him, one that he didn't share with anyone else.

Lee finds out about it only a few minutes before the Helms departs from Alabama. He's in the EVA ready room on Deck H5, going over last- minute details with the first officer, when a crewman emerges through the manhole leading to the hub access shaft. During the past eleven days Alabama has shed nearly all of its forward velocity; the magnetic sail has been collapsed, and the pa.s.senger decks have returned to microgravity. As the crewman enters the deck headfirst, Lee notes that he's hauling a nylon bag with something stuffed inside.

Tom looks away from the pad he and Lee have been studying, smiles as the crewman pushes himself over to them. "Ah-ha, Mr. Balis... you've found it?"

"Yes, sir." b.a.l.l.s glances nervously at the captain as he extends the weightless bag to Shaprio. "Sorry I took so long. It was in the cargo, but everything's been moved around so much up there, and I couldn't..."

"Never mind. Just so long as you got it. Thanks." Shapiro takes the bag, turns to pa.s.s it to another crewman waiting near the open hatch of the docking collar. "Mr. LeMare, if you could stow this safely..."

"Just a moment, Tom." Lee reaches out to intercept the bag. "I'm curious to see what you've had Mr.

Balis locate for you."

Shapiro frowns, but surrenders the bag without argument. From the corner of his eye, Lee can see Shapiro's party. Like him and his copilot, It . Kim Newell, Dr. Bernard Cayle, and Dr. James Levin are wearing s.p.a.cesuits, their helmets tucked beneath their arms. No one really believes such precautions are necessary once the team reaches the surface, but Kuniko Okada insists they observe Federal s.p.a.ce Agency protocols for first landing, and as chief physician she has the final word. Cayle and Levin look uncomfortable in the bulky suits-as civilian scientists, they've never worn, them before now-and Lee notes that they seem as mystified as Lieutenant Newell.

Shapiro waits patiently as the captain loosens the drawstring and peers inside. Lee expects to find a bottle of California champagne from the liquor supply, so he isn't shocked to find that his suspicion was correct; Les Gillis had consumed most of the booze, but bringing champagne was Tom's idea in the first place, so Lee can't begrudge his first officer taking one of the few bottles left. Yet also within the bag is a large metal can; the captain pulls it out, examines it more closely: a half gallon of red waterproof paint, intended for use in building permanent shelters. There's also a four-inch utility brush within the bag.

Lee looks up. "You want to paint an X on the landing site?""Perhaps I do, sir." Shapiro's expression remains neutral.

Lee waits another moment for a better explanation; when none is forthcoming, he shoves the can back in the bag and cinches it tight. "Go on, get out of here," he murmurs. "And leave some for the rest of us...

the champagne, I mean."

Shapiro grins as he takes the bag from him. "Seriously, Tom," Lee adds, "don't take any chances down there. If you run into any trouble, b.u.t.ton yourself up, then call back and tell us what you've found."

The grin fades as Tom solemnly nods. "You know I will." Then he turns to his team. "Okay, let's go.

We've got a planet waiting for us." flllen M. Steele "It's a moon, actually," Cayle murmurs as he watches Shapiro enter the docking collar. Newell takes a moment to give her captain a formal salute, which Lee returns before she follows Shapiro through the narrow hatch. Although he tries not to show it, Lee's grateful for the gesture. Unlike Tom, Kim Newell wasn't part of the conspiracy; in fact, he knows from reading her crew dossier that she was a Liberty Party member. Apparently she's decided to put aside political differences for the sake of the expedition; the fact that she and Tom were once Academy cla.s.smates may have something to do with it.

Jim Levin hesitates, as if having second thoughts about volunteering his services as exobiologist, then he ducks his head and plunges in after Newell. Cayle waits until his friend has completely disappeared from sight before he clumsily enters the hatch feetfirst. The top of his head has barely vanished before LeMare shuts the hatch behind him and dogs it tight.

Lee pushes himself over to the porthole, peers out at the shuttle suspended within its cradle. After a minute or so, he spots Shapiro and Newell as they enter the gla.s.s frames of the bullet-nosed c.o.c.kpit; its interior lights brighten for a few moments, then become dim. The shuttle's gull wings unfold from docking position, exposing the duel air- breathing ramjets mounted on the aft upper fuselage. Lee silently counts back from sixty; at the ten-second mark the cradle retracts its grip upon the vehicle. A few seconds later, there's a brief flare from the maneuvering thrusters; Helms glides upward from its cradle, trailed by sparkling motes of dust and frozen oxygen.

The shuttle falls away from the Alabama. For a few seconds it gradually recedes from view, its thrusters firing now and again. Then the main engine fires, and the craft peels away, and suddenly the Helms is gone, disappearing beneath the stars.h.i.+p's hull.

Lee remains at the porthole for another few moments. Then, almost reluctantly, he turns away, pus.h.i.+ng himself toward the access shaft.

LJR5S jesse helms 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 10M8 BMT Coming out of the sun, the shuttle descends upon the neuu world, racing ahead of the dawn as it glides across the night terminator. As the s.p.a.cecraft falls toward Coyote, a razor-sharp line rises from beyond the curved horizon, lancing straight up into s.p.a.ce like a silver thread; a few moments later Bear comes into view, an immense orb the color of a robin's egg, its ring plane dividing the superjovian in half.

"Will you look at that?" Newell's voice is an awestruck whisper. "Isn't that the most incredible thing you've ever seen?"

"Uh-huh. Beautiful." Shapiro barely glances up from his left-seat console. Coyote and its primary fill the c.o.c.kpit's lattice windows, but he can't afford to let himself get distracted just now. Behind them, he can hear Levin and Cayle murmuring to each another; the scientists may have the luxury of sight-seeing, but they don't. "Eyes down, Lieutenant. We'll be kissing air in about sixty seconds.""Yes, sir. Sorry." Newell reluctantly returns her attention to the digital gauges on her instrument panel.

"Alt.i.tude 400,500 feet, velocity seventeen thousand miles per hour. Roll zero, yaw zero, pitch twenty-five degrees."

"Roger that." Shapiro gently pulls back on the yoke, hauling the shuttle's nose up to proper descent angle. He checks the att.i.tude direction indicator; the eight ball is right where it should be, the horizontal bar of the crosshatch dead center with the vertical bar, thirty degrees above the black. He taps his headset mike. "Alabama, this is Helms. Pa.s.sing daylight terminator, preparing for atmosphere interface.

LOS in forty-five seconds. Over."