“Yes, sir. I have the same report. But the important thing, to my mind, is that someone is alive up there with a few days of air left, and he apparently can’t fire his engine and get out of orbit.”

“Understood. So no self-rescue. But is this something we have the ability to do?”

“We don’t know, Mr. President, because our esteemed NASA administrator has rejected even the most rudimentary attempt to find out.”

“You made it clear you want me to order John Kent reinstated.”

“Yes, sir, I do. He’s the best man to spearhead any attempt we might make. But there’s a good reason beyond that. Way beyond that. All through the cold war, all through the space race, all through our history of manned—sorry, I mean human—spaceflight, our nation has maintained a steadfast consistency on the value of even one human life. For God’s sake, even Stalin said the loss of one life is a tragedy.”

“Yes, and the rest of that quote is that a million deaths is a statistic. Terrible thing to quote in part.”

“I’m a doddering old senator with a selective memory. Sue me.”

“Go on. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“Mr. President, we’re the nation that refused to let the Apollo Thirteencrew die. The Russians killed dozens in their space program and refused to be moved. I submit we not change that now just because the stranded human is in a private spacecraft and is not a certified NASA astronaut. He’s an American, and…”

“I get it, Mitch. That’s an eloquent speech, but you can stop now. I get it.”

Mitch’s hand is out. “Let me finish. We need to have these words ringing in our minds. The business of America is business. Calvin Coolidge said that and we should be teaching it in every elementary school. Are we going to let a bureaucratic bureaucrat like Geoff Shear reject a rescue only because it involves someone shot into space by a mere American corporation and not our mighty government? Not to mention his personal animus against Richard DiFazio. If this was a current NASA astronaut up there, would there be any question? Aren’t we dedicated to encouraging our companies, including private spaceflight ventures?”

“You know my stance on that.”

“Then, dammit, Mr. President, you have to rein in Shear. He’s out of control.”

“Mitch, he’s defending our ability to carry anyone into space. How long have we been operating with only two shuttles? Six years?”

The senator chuckles with a knowing smile. “He’s already called you, hasn’t he?”

The President is smiling back, almost embarrassed. “Well… you know Geoff. He’s a Beltway pro. He got to me before Kent got to you.”

“That’s unimportant. The order of contact, I mean.”

“He’s not an evil force, Mitch. He’s got a point.”

“He’s on a personal vendetta, sir. You remember the fallout from that rather infamous hearing.”

“Yes, but he still has a point.”

“You going to let him cloud the bigger picture?”

The President laughs. It’s more of a snort than a laugh, but he ends it by looking at his shoes before shaking his head. “Of course not.”

“You still hate bureaucrats?”

“With a passion. But they have their uses.”

“True. Landfill, for one.”

There’s a resigned sigh. “Mitch, if we lose a shuttle in this, can you steer the Senate to adopt the replacement bill at long last?”

“No guarantees, but we can probably do it. And you know we’ve got more than enough satellite lift capability without ever flying another shuttle.”

“Sad, but true.” The President slaps his thigh and stands, holding his hand out for Mitch to shake. “I’ll issue the order.”

“Rehire Kent and get a rescue mission ready if possible?”

“Yes. Shear may resign, Mitch.”

“And, Mr. President, your point would be what?”

They both laugh as the senator takes his leave.

The President picks up the phone. Within a minute the requested voice comes on the line.

“Geoff? This is your leader. What the hell are you doing upsetting senior citizens like Mitch Lipensky?”

The very sound of Vasily’s voice on the other end of the surprise phone call is comforting, buoying Richard DiFazio’s spirits.

“There is a chance, Richard. I did not realize we were as far along in our preparations as we are.”

“How soon could you launch?”

“This is the space station resupply mission, you understand. We would have room for two, and only to transport them to the station. From there, one of the escape capsules would have to be used to return.”

“For one?”

“Or both. We don’t have enough seats to do our mission and return two of your people.”

“One may be badly hurt, or worse. We may have only one alive.”

“If only one, we can bring him back after the resupply rendezvous.”

“How soon?”

“Five days.”

“Oh jeez, Vasily, they’ll be dead by then.”

“Not if they’re careful. There are conservation steps, even with CO ₂scrubbers.”

“Yes, but we can’t tell them. We can’t talk to them.”

“And we cannot move any faster. But if there’s only one alive, you have twice the time, no?”

Silence while Richard grapples with that possibility.

“And… there is one thing, Richard. I’m sorry, but in the new Russia we still count every ruble, and this is a substantial change.”

“How much, Vasily?”

“Twenty-five million.”

Richard feels his blood pressure rising, simply out of the question. Unless…

“Can’t we get that lower? This is a humanitarian rescue, an emergency. Suppose you need us someday?”

“Then you will name your price, too.”

“Vasily, we don’t have that kind of money.”

“One of your backers, Butch Davidson, certainly does. He makes more than that every week in interest, I think. Is good idea, true?”

Why he’s hearing the word “okay” coming from his mouth is a mystery. He knows Davidson’s true penny-pinching nature that contrasts so gratingly with his publicly magnanimous reputation. The thought of approaching him for such a sum scares him.

“I have two million I can wire you as a down payment,” Richard tells him.

“Okay. The rest you can get from Davidson.”

“Please tell me you won’t demand payment in full before launch.”

The pause scares him again, but the chuckle from Baikonaur Cosmodrome is reassuring. “No, we will extend you credit, my friend. But the money comes due whatever happens up there. Success or failure, you agree?”

“Yes. Five days, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll need coordinates and everything from us then?”

“No, we already know precisely, Richard. I shall e-mail you the bank account information within the hour. And then we begin.”

Richard replaces the receiver in shock. Two million dollars without so much as one line on paper. Not to mention the remaining twenty-three million.

He shudders thinking of the reaction when he tells his board, which includes Davidson.

He stands suddenly, as if considering bolting. The deal he just verbally inked is based on a colossal set of assumptions, chief among them that NASA’s chief is as good as his word and there will be no American rescue attempt.

What if NASA decides to do the rescue? How much do I owe the Russians then?

Clearly, the two million will be lost the moment it’s wired, but it’s a risk he has to take. He reaches for the nearest computer keyboard and punches up his e-mail. The bank information message from Vasily is already in place.

It was inevitable, Diana thinks, and in some ways she’s surprised it took this long. It’s minutes past five P.M. western time and the sun is hanging low, Intrepidhas been gone for almost ten hours.

The six flat-panel TV screens arrayed along the wall at the end of her desk are one-by-one posting their versions of a breaking news alert, adding file photos of ASA’s spacecraft, first on Fox News and now on MSNBC. She’s trying to keep up, toggling on the sound one by one to hear the same basic message: “A private spacecraft launched this morning has lost communication and may be in trouble.”