Holly spoke grimly. ‘We’ve got another 50,000 feet. If we don’t catch up with it by then, we’ll burn out.’
Bond looked at the altimeter: 250,000 feet, 240,000 feet. They were dropping at an angle that was suicidal for reentry. But they had no alternative. It was either that or leave a hundred million people to die.
‘There it is!’ Two red circles started to dance crazily on the screen. Holly was looking ahead to a tiny red sun bobbing in the distance. Bond knew why it was red. It was beginning to re-enter the Earth’s atmosphere. Just like them. The red circles lurched towards each other and there was a flash of green. Bond pressed. The circles stayed on the screen. Red. Holly cried out in pain as she jabbed at the controls.
‘I can’t hold this course much longer. We’ll break up.’
Bond said nothing. 220,000 feet. His eyes were almost falling out of his head. The heat was agonizing. The two circles overlapped momentarily and there was another stab of green. He pressed instantly. Again too late. The two circles rolled around the screen like socketless eyes mocking his ineptitude. A shrill, high-pitched buzz rang out from somewhere on the control panel. A whole section of lights began to blink in unison. 200,000 feet. Death, here is thy sting.
‘I’m losing the controls. The wings are starting to burn.’
Bond concentrated on the circles. They might be the last thing he ever concentrated on. The Moonraker was being shaken up and down as if by a giant hand. The noise from the control panel was ear-splitting. Distracting red lights flashed at the extremities of his vision. Smoke was billowing under his nose. His heels were on fire. Holly was crying out in pain. Bond strove to stay in control of his senses. The two circles performed kangaroo jumps and then moved into the same orbit. Come on, come on, damn you! It was like watching a putt hover on the lip of the hole. A putt with a hundred million lives riding on it. The circles trembled and then mounted each other to give birth to green. Bond pressed hot metal and looked out of the forward window. An arrow of white light streaked towards a white circle tinged with red. The circle disappeared. A violent explosion seemed to throw the Moonraker upwards and Bond saw Holly haul on the control column. Then he passed out.
20
COMING DOWN TO EARTH
Frederick Gray moved down the long corridor feeling pleased with himself. How fortunate that he, a key member of Her Majesty’s Government, should have found himself within reach of Houston at this time. He tried not to look too obviously at the camera crew who were filming as they retreated down the corridor before him. His picture appearing all over the world. What a well-deserved boost to his career. With the P.M.’s health in question and no successor immediately recognizable in a divided Cabinet, the opportunities for self-advancement were obvious. Frederick Gray, the man on the spot. All glory attached to Britain’s unexpected space coup would adhere to him. With M and his myrmidons safely ensconced in London, he would be seen as the trenchant mastermind behind Britain’s involvement. Which, of course, was just. He had pressed for the best man to be put on the job, and this fellow Bond seemed to have delivered the goods.
‘Hold it just there, gentlemen.’ The cameraman held up his hand and the phalanx stopped obediently. Cameras Whirred. Frederick Gray saw the microphone boom above his head. He began to speak with the slow, pompous delivery that had bored millions of television viewers: ‘... A great day for Anglo-American co-operation and a great day for the world.’
The general whose name he had not caught looked at him in surprise. ‘Yeah.’ He moved from behind the shoulder that Gray had thrust in front of him and addressed the camera crew. ‘We’re going in to Mission Control now. I would appreciate it if you were to keep behind the prescribed limits and not crowd us. Thank you.’
An armed guard in white helmet and gaiters swung open the door and Gray stepped forward smartly. At first glance he appeared to have walked into a theatre, but there were rows of consoles instead of seats. Where the stage would be was an enormous map of the world with lines of illuminated dots showing the paths of orbiting satellites. Gray thought of the famous space shots that had been shepherded from this hallowed room and wished that he could remember the names of some of them. He should have got his private secretary to bone up on the necessary background information. A few well-chosen words might have impressed viewers with his alertness and knowledge of everything that was going on in the world. He saw that the microphone boom was out of range and felt better. ‘Very impressive,’ he said, just in case anybody was listening. The general turned and looked at him with scarcely concealed dislike. He hated all politicians, but British politicians acting as though they still had an empire gave him a special pain that was worse than his ulcer.
An authoritative man bearing the words ‘Mission Control Director’ on the breast pocket of his short-sleeved shirt stepped forward and nodded to the assembled company. ‘Gentlemen, welcome to Mission Control, Houston. We have received a position report and should have visual contact at any moment. If you observe the wall map you can see the trail of green lights approaching the Indian Ocean. The red light that you see flashing represents our tracking ship. Once Commander Bond and Dr Goodhead come within range we should have audio-visual from the remote on-board T.V. monitors.’
Gray began to relate to the excitement that was building up in the room, but for different reasons. He had heard his name mentioned twice by the man who was talking into the hand-held microphone to the television crew. They were transmitting live, and would be received at every corner of the globe. Not since the landing of Armstrong and Aldrin had there been an event like it.
The Mission Control Director began to speak again. His eyes sought out Gray. ‘We’re particularly glad to have you with us, Mr Gray. Because of the historical significance of this mission, I’m having this patched directly to the White House and Buckingham Palace, by satellite.’
Gray’s cup overranneth. ‘Most kind,’ was all he could blurt out. He could imagine the royal hand putting down the Spode cup, the corgi’s eyes obediently following its mistress’s to the screen. At such moments a man might be excused his dreams. What would his thought be, he wondered, when the call came from the Palace? He imagined himself sitting in the Rolls-Royce as it purred down the Mall, a sprinkling of sightseers craning forward as the sentries saluted and he sailed through the gates. ‘Will you form a government, Mr Gray?’ ‘Of course, Ma’am.’ The first of many meetings, perhaps culminating in the moment when his knee sank towards the damask cushion and there was a slight tap on his shoulder. ‘Arise, Sir Frederick.’ Sir Frederick Gray. The three words that formed a poem more lovely than any Shakespeare Sonnet.
‘We’re getting something!’ A technician spoke out excitedly from his position beside a large monitor screen and Gray elbowed aside the general. The camera crew closed in. A cueman. had his arm raised. This was the moment. Gray craned forward so that the world could see the tears of pride in his eyes as he welcomed back his protege. His eyes opened in wonder as he took in the scene and then, very slowly, little by little, he began to edge back behind the general.
‘The Shoshones used to make love after battle to give thanks for still being alive,’ said Holly.
Bond kissed her naked shoulder and watched a flimsy undergarment drifting by. ‘Say not the struggle nought availeth,’ he murmured. ‘What a pity they couldn’t do it when they were weightless.’
