Skyfall

Dillwater was waiting when he came out — were his eyebrows elevated ever so slightly? Maybe they were, he must have set the world's peeing record, but did not feel he could explain this to Dillwater. They went to the elevator.

“Can you brief me?” Flax asked.

“It is simple enough. A New York paper broke a story a few hours ago, this morning New York time. Since then all of the media have picked it up, all over the world, and it's snowballing. Have you heard about it?”

“Just a couple of words, someone told me who was watching TV. A crackpot idea about Prometheus turning into an atom bomb. Insane!”

“I am glad you feel that way, Mr. Flax, but please save your arguments and indignation for the press. As soon as he heard the first reports President Bandin sent me here to arrange a conference to destroy these rumors before they spread. I have just spent a very uncomfortable time in a supersonic Air Force plane, so you must excuse me if my temper is short.”

“Who's here? What kind of coverage?”

“Everything and everyone. All the media. We must be on our toes and I look upon you for aid in every way.”

Flax was scared. He did not like big crowds nor did he enjoy being cross-examined by suspicious journalists. When backed into a corner he tended to squeak like a rat, which everyone enjoyed but which sapped his morale. He wished he could have a drink before he went on. There was the bar in “the office behind the conference hall. But what would Dillwater think? The hell with what he thought.

“I'm going into Jack's office for a moment,” he said turning the knob. Dillwater's eyebrows arched up.

“Whatever on earth for?”

“For a drink, if you must know.”

The eyebrows slowly dropped and a suspicion of a smile touched the corners of the rigid mouth.

“I will join you.”

Dillwater had a small dry sherry while Flax poured a half glass of whiskey, diluted it with water, then drank it straight down. “My God,” he said, striking himself lightly on the protruding stomach with the thumb of his closed fist. “That is going to cure or kill me.” He belched cavernously and shuddered. Dillwater finished his last sip of sherry, tapped his lips with his handkerchief, and waved to the door. “Into the lion's den, if you please, Mr. Flax. I'm afraid we have no choice.”

They came in by the side entrance and were unnoticed for a few seconds. Minford, the PR man, was behind the podium and fielding the questions. If his sweat-drenched face was any indication, he had not been having an easy time. Heads turned, one by one, as they crossed the front of the hall and the cameras began to click. Minford had the expression of a man just saved from the lion pit as they came forward.

“Now if you would please hold those questions for a moment or two you will be able to ask the people who are completely in the picture. Mr. Simon Dillwater you all know. He has just jetted down here from Washington to give you a full report. With him is Dr. Flax who has been in the hot spot at Mission Control ever since takeoff, and has been in contact with the astronauts all of that time. Will you please address your questions to them….”

Hands, pencils and pads were being waved; there were hoarse shouts for attention. Minford looked them over quickly, and pointed to the Science Editor of the LA Times. They had worked together for years and he might just be a little more sympathetic.

“Dr. Flax, just what is the situation in space at this moment?”

Flax relaxed, ever so slightly, no trouble here. “Separation has been achieved as you know. At the present time the crew is repressurizing the flight cabin so they can work in shirtsleeve environment again. The program now calls for the check-out of the nuclear engine in the lower compartment, the engine which will now be fired to lift Prometheus to its final orbit….” Hands were waving again and Minford stabbed his finger at the nearest.

“What about the core body, the last booster still there in orbit? If it fell couldn't it cause immense destruction? As much as an atomic bomb?” They were silent now, waiting for his answer. Flax spoke slowly, counting off the major points on his fingers.

“Firstly, nothing can 'fall' from orbit, despite what you might have heard. This last booster, like the previous five, will be inserted into a proper descent orbit and soft-landed just as the others were. Secondly, if anything were to go wrong, though this is unimaginable, the worst that would happen would be the destruction of the booster by combustion in the atmosphere…,”

“If a malfunction is unimaginable,” a voice called out loudly, “what do you call the failure of the core body engines and the failure to separate?”

Flax was beginning to sweat heavily. “Perhaps I chose the wrong term. We can imagine an uncontrolled landing, in which case the booster would burn up.”

“It couldn't hit a city, explode?”

“Impossible. Thousands of rockets have been launched, all of them with disposable stages. All of these have burnt up on re-entry and none have ever caused the slightest damage.”