So how many? A million?

But why were they here? What had drawn so many of them from so far?

It was faith, she realized. Faith in Malenfant, faith that he could once more defy the various forces ranged against him: Reid Malenfant, an old-fashioned American can-do hero who had already brought back postcards from the future and was now about to launch a rocket ship and save the species single-handedly.

I have to admit, Malenfant, you hit a nerve.

And as she thought it through, as that realization crystallized in her, she understood, at last, what was happening today.

My God, she thought. He s actually going to do it. He’s going to launch, come what may. That’s what this is all about.

And she felt shock, even shame, that these strangers, so many of them, had understood Malenfant’s subliminal message better than she had. Come watch me fly, he’d told them; and here they were.

She pressed forward with increasing urgency.

At last she was through the crowds and the security barriers and inside the compound. And there — still a couple of miles away — was Malenfant’s ship, BDB-2, called O ‘Neill.

She could see the slim profile of the booster stack: the angular space shuttle boat-tail at the base, the central tank with its slim solid boosters like white pencils to either side, the fat tube of the payload module on top. There were splashes of red and blue that must be the Stars and Stripes Malenfant had insisted must adorn all his ships, and the hull’s smooth curve glistened sharply where liquid air had frozen out frost from the desert night. The tower alongside the BOB looked minimal: slim and calm. There were clouds of vapor alongside the booster, little white knots that drifted from the tanks.

Bathed in a white xenon glow, the booster looked small, remote, even fragile, like an object in a shrine. This was the flame to which all these people had been drawn.

She got out of her car and ran to George Bench’s control

bunker.

The blockhouse was small, cramped, with an air of improvisation. One wall was a giant window, tinted, giving a view of the pad itself, the splash of light around the waiting booster. Facing the window were consoles — just desks piled with manuals and softscreens and coffee cups — each manned by a young T-shirted technician. At the back of the room were more people, arguing, running back and forth with manuals and piles of printout. Cables lay everywhere, in bundles across the floor and along the ceiling.

In one doorway, being shepherded by one of Malenfant’s flunkies, there was a gaggle of what looked like federal-government types, gray suits and ties and little briefcases. One of them, protesting loudly, was Representative Mary Howell, Emma realized with a start, the former chemical engineer who had given Malenfant such a tough ride in the Congressional hearings.

In the middle of all this, surrounded by people, yelling instructions and demanding information, there was Malenfant himself, with Cornelius — and Michael, the boy from Zambia. Cornelius was holding Michael’s hand, which was balled into a fist. Malenfant hurried forward. “Emma. Thank Christ you’re here.”

She couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. Because all three of them — Malenfant, Cornelius, and Michael — were wearing one-piece orange garments covered in pockets and Velcro patches.

They were flight pressure suits. Space suits.

Art Morris:

Art could see the rocket ship from the driving seat of the Rusty. But he was parked well away from the roads, on a patch of scrub it had been no trouble at all for the Rusty to reach.

This Rusty — strictly a Reconnaissance, Surveillance, and Targeting Vehicle, or RST-V — was the Marine Corps’ replacement for the Jeep. Like the Jeep it was all but indestructible. And it ran with a hybrid electric power system, which used a diesel-power generator to produce power for electric motors mounted on each wheel. The design was slighter and much more compact than mechanical drive trains, and there was built-in reliability: If one wheel failed, he could just keep motoring on three, or even two if they weren’t on the same side. And the wheels worked independently; the Rusty could turn around and around, like a ballerina.

Best of all, when he turned off the generator and ran on batteries, there was no engine noise, no exhaust gases that might give away his position to any thermal sensors deployed by those guys on the fence.

Art loved this Rusty. But it wasn’t his, of course. The only personal touch Art allowed himself was the snapshot of his daughter, Leanne, taped to the dash.

The Rusty had been borrowed for him for the occasion by his good friend Willy Butts, who was still in the Marine Corps. Art’s first idea had just been to walk up to the compound and start blasting, but Willy had talked him out of it. You won’t get past the gate, man. Think about it. And you ‘II still be a couple miles from the rocket. What you need is a little transport. Leave it tome.

And Willy, as he always did, had come through, and here was Art, and there was the rocket, waiting for him.

He touched the ignition button. The Rusty’s engine started up with the quietest of coughs. He rolled forward, the big adjustable suspension smoothing out the ride for him over the hummocky ground.

No more yellow babies, Malenfant. He tapped his photo. His little girl blew her candles one more time.

Art switched over to silent running.

Emma Stoney:

Mary Howell stepped forward. “This is a joke. Malenfant, I could ground you under child-protection legislation if I didn’t already have this” She waved a piece of paper in his face. “You are in breach of federal aviation regulations parts twenty-three, twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, and thirty-one, which govern airworthiness certification. I also have clear evidence that your maintenance program does not follow the procedures spelled out in FAA advisory circular AC 120-17 A. Furthermore—”

Malenfant glared at Howell. “Representative, this has nothing to do with FAA regulations or any of that bullshit. This is personally vindictive.”

George Hench, a headset clamped to his ears, growled to Malenfant. “If we’re going to stand down I have to know now.”

Somehow the sight of Malenfant and Cornelius and a child, for God’s sake, trussed up in these astronaut suits, surrounded by the clamor of this out-of-control situation, summed up for Emma how far into lunacy Malenfant had slipped. “Malenfant, are you crazy?”

“We’re going to fly, Emma. We have to. It’s become a duty.”

“What about the four astronauts we trained up, at vast

expense?”

“They were training me,” Malenfant said. He smiled, looking

almost wistful.

Cornelius Taine shrugged. “That was always the plan. Who is

better qualified?”

“Another blind, Malenfant?”

“Yeah… All but one. Jay. The girl. She had the right

training.”

“What for?”

“To care for Michael.”

George Hench was picking up something on his headset. He grimaced at Malenfant. “More inspectors incoming.”

“Who is it this time?”

“Nuclear Regulatory Commission.”

Howell’s gaze flicked from George to Malenfant. “NRC? What’s this about the NRC?”

“Scottish uranium,” Emma said grimly. “If they’re here it’s all unraveling. We’ll be lucky to avoid jail.”

“But I’ve no choice.” Malenfant stared at her, as if trying to force her to agree with him through sheer power of personality. “Don’t you see that? I’ve had no choice since the moment Cornelius talked his way into your office.”

“This isn’t about mining the asteroids any more. Is it, Malenfant?”

“No. It’s about whatever is waiting for us on Cruithne.”