Skyfall

“I'll take another ten if you're throwing your money away,” Patrick said. He buttoned his uniform jacket and brushed some invisible dust from his major's oakleaves. It was probably ten bucks thrown away since Dr. Ely Bron had a way of usually being right about things and of winning bets. And he would let you know too. Patrick tried hard to like his nuclear physicist colleague but was aware that he did not always succeed.

“Let's go,” Flax said, heaving his bulk to his feet as they slowed and stopped. “Band, guard of honor, politicians, usual crap.”

“Is it good afternoon or good evening?” Patrick asked, looking at his watch.

“Dobry Vyecher is good at any time,” Flax said. “Or Zdractvootye.”

Through the open door came the first notes of the Star Spangled Banner, slightly off key and with the beat wrong, sounding more like a Russian folk song than the siege of Fort McHenry. The ranked batteries of cameras clicked when they appeared at the head of the stairs, and the reception party stepped forward. There were some mercifully brief speeches of welcome, in Russian, followed by equally brief statements of pleasure at being able to come — then it was inside for the vodka and caviar. And the press. Patrick was relieved that Flax fielded most of the questions, switching from Russian to Polish to German to English without hesitation. Ely Bron seemed to do just as well in French and German, no doubt learned in his spare time at MIT when he wasn't getting another master's or doctorate. Patrick had worked hard on his technical Russian and knew he could work a space flight in it — but he wasn't up to conducting any interviews. It would have to be English or nothing. A short man in a very wrinkled suit pushed through the crowd towards him. His glasses were stained and he had a tendency to spray fine droplets when he talked.

“Pilkington, World Star, London,” he said in faint cockney and pushed a microphone towards Patrick. “Major Winter, as Commander of this venture I imagine you must have very definite ideas about it. Firstly the danger…”

“I don't think venture is quite the right word.” Patrick smiled when he spoke; he had met Pilkington's type before on both sides of the Atlantic. There were reporters who wanted facts, hard news. And there were others who wrote primarily for people who moved their lips when they read. He had read World Star occasionally and thought it made ideal catbox lining, but remembered his training. “Always be nice to the press.”

“Operation Prometheus is a joint Soviet-American project that combines the specific knowledge and talents of both countries in a way that will benefit the whole world.”

“You mean the Russians are better at something than the Americans?” The microphone hovered close and Patrick, still holding his sincere smile, thought how much better it would be pushed down Pilkington's throat.

“What we're doing is beyond political or national rivalries. The Prometheus operation will supply pollution-free energy at a time when traditional sources of power are running out. Eventually it will supply this energy to every nation on the face of the earth---”

“But now only the Russians and the Americans are going to get any?”

“Right now just the Soviets and the Americans are building and financing the project which has cost twenty-two billion dollars to launch. Once in place it can be expanded far more cheaply. In any case any increase in total world energy supplies will benefit everybody.”

Pilkington wiped his lips with the back of his hand and twitched, then took a new tack. “The danger, that's the thing the whole world's worried about. This death ray you'll be shooting out, it could wipe out whole cities, couldn't it?”

“That's not quite true, Mr. Pilkington, I'm afraid you must have been reading your own paper.” A quick thrust instantly half-regretted. “Colonel Kuznekov developed the technique and it has been tested as thoroughly as anyone knows how. Electricity is generated from sunlight in space by simple thermal means, a turbine-driven generator, then broadcast as a beam of high-energy short waves. These are received on Earth and converted back into electricity.”

“But couldn't this death ray get out of control and wipe the countryside right out?”