Skyfall

The books marked the spot on the floor where they were to stand and, more or less good-naturedly, they took their places. They had to shuffle closer together to get on camera and then it was time.

“Stand by,” the technician said, and his harried face was replaced by a split screen with Bandin on one side, the Soviet Premier on the other.

“This is a very great moment in the history of the world,” Bandin said. Then Polyarni made almost the same remark in Russian. Patrick nodded and tried to look intelligent, aware of the stiff figures standing on both sides and fighting down the sensation that they must look like a row of silver-plated teddy bears. Polyarni started to talk again but Bandin beat him to it.

“When I say a great moment in the history of the world I indeed mean just that. Yes, this is a victory for the technology, the hard work, the sheer guts of the men and women of our two great nations who created the Prometheus Project and who will see it carried through to glorious completion. But more than that it is a victory for all mankind, echoing the words of Neil Armstrong, the first man to ever walk on the Moon — this is a great step for mankind…”

“I agree, Mr. President,” Polyarni broke in when Bandin made the mistake of pausing an instant for breath. “A tradition for greatness in space exploration that began with the first man to fly in orbit, Yuri Gagarin.”

“Yes, of course, how true.” Score tied, one-one. “For mankind itself is on the threshold of a great new age that will open when Prometheus blasts a fiery trail into the heavens to tap the inexhaustible energy of the sun. We will be freed forever from dependency upon our ever decreasing store of fossil fuels, and in doing this we shall leave forever the age of suspicion and distrust between nations and enter that of mutual peace and prosperity on Earth for all.”

There was more of this from both of them and Patrick shifted slowly from one foot to the other so his muscles wouldn't cramp or go to sleep. The countdown clock was visible behind the TV screen and he experienced a great feeling of relief when it clicked over to 02:00. He took a firm step forward and nodded at both men, and spoke in the momentary silence.

“Thank you, Mr. President. Balshoya Spaseebo tovarisch presidyent. We are better prepared for this mission now that we have talked with you and, in the name of my crew, I offer our thanks. However, the countdown has reached the moment when we must depart for the spacecraft. Thank you again, and good-bye.”

He walked briskly out of range of the camera and the others, trying not to hurry, came after him. The connection was broken and Kuznekov yawned and stretched widely.

“Boshemoi! How boring politicians can be, of whatever nation. A necessary evil I suppose, but one I've had my fill of.”

Ely nodded agreement. “No one ever got shot for something they didn't say. Therefore politicans say nothing and get elected on their charm or charisma or PR or whatever it is.”

“Chitchat later,” Patrick said. “The carrier should be sealed to the exit port now. Before we go I want all personal effects in the plastic bags, and this means emptying your pockets too. No ham sandwiches on this flight, or postage stamps, extra first-day covers, pictures of the Pope or Lenin. Nothing. That was the agreement and we'd better not blow it.”

“We do not have your capitalistic instincts to turn an honest buck,” Kuznekov said, smiling. “So are happy to agree. But isn't there still a little capitalistic business to repay us for sacrificing any attempt at personal free enterprise?”

“You know perfectly well,” Ely told him. “We have three hundred first-day covers with the special stamps from both countries. We have a handstamp and we will cancel them in space. We will have fifty each to keep or sell and do what we want with the money. Mostly pay income tax I guess.”

Patrick checked the transparent plastic bag each astronaut carried. There were only the normal personal items he expected to find. He looked at his watch.

“Right on time. Let's go.”

Patrick led the way, pausing only to shake hands with the cook and the two maids who had looked after them during their quarantine. “I'm coming back for more of your potato pancakes, Ivan,” he said in slow Russian.

“I'll have a washtub full, a bathtub full waiting when you land, Major!”

The green light was on over the exit portal. Patrick spun the wheel that secured the door and there was a slight hissing as the pressure equalized. The quarters for the quarantine period had been sealed away from the outside world to make sure they did not contract colds or any other infections. All the food and water they would need had been locked in with them. The air they breathed was pumped in through elaborate filters and the interior pressure kept higher than the ambient air outside. This way any air that leaked would leak out of their quarters and possible infected air could not enter. Now they were leaving — but still in quarantine.