Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [72]
"That's for sure." Bambridge tried to imagine it. An asteroid strike in some remote part of the Soviet Union—would they believe it wasn't a U.S. sneak attack? Or why remote? Moscow! "But if we've gone to alert status, they'll know it, and it'll give 'em that much more reason to think we did it," Bambridge said.
"Sure. And if we haven't gone to alert, and they see this as a golden opportunity? If the Hammer hits, Washington may be gone, Tom. Washington, New York, most of the eastern seacoast."
"Shit. All we'd need would be a war on top of that," Bambridge said. "If the Hammer really does hit, the world is going to be in a big enough mess without starting the Big One to go with it. But if it hits us and not them, they'll want to finish the job. It's what I'd do, if I was them."
"But you wouldn't—"
"Not from this office," Bambridge said. "Not even if I got orders that I'll never, thank God, get." The General stared at the missile models on the far wall. "Look, what I can do is see that my best people are on duty. Put my top men in the holes, and I'll be up in Looking Glass myself. But how do I tell a meteor hit from a missile attack?"
"I think you'll know," Jellison said.
Outside was night and glory. In the Apollo capsule Rick Delanty was moored to his couch. His eyes were tightly closed and he lay rigid, fists clenched. "All right, dammit. I've been sick ever since we came up. But don't tell Houston. There's nothing they could do anyway."
"You damn fool, you'll starve," Baker told him. "Hell, it's no disgrace. Everybody gets space sickness."
"Not for a whole week."
"You know better. MacAlliard was sick the whole mission. Not as bad as you, but he had help. And I'm getting Dr. Malik."
"No!"
"Yes. We haven't got time for macho pride."
"That's not it and you know it." Delanty's voice was pinched. "She'll report it. And—"
"And nothing," Baker said. "We're not going to scrub this mission just because you keep puking up your guts."
"You're sure of that?"
"Yeah. They can't abort unless I say so. And I won't. Unless—"
"Unless nothing," Delanty said. "That's the whole point. Good God, Johnny, if this flops because of me … Hell, I wish they'd picked somebody else. Then it wouldn't matter so much. But I've got to keep going."
"Why?" Baker demanded.
"Because I'm—"
"A gentleman of color?"
"Black. Try to remember." He tried to grin. "All right, get the lady doc. Something's got to help. Mothersills, maybe?"
"Best thing is to keep your eyes closed."
"Which I'm doing, and a fat lot of help I am," Delanty said. His voice was bitter. "Me, old Iron Ear, space-sick. It's insane." He realized Baker had left, and nervously began buttoning up his fly.
The official name was "sustained duty clothing." Everyone else would have called them long johns. Or a union suit. What the well-dressed spaceman will wear. It's a very practical costume, but Rick Delanty couldn't quite hide his nervousness: He wasn't used to having women see him in his underwear. Especially not white women.
"Man, will the old boys in the back towns in Texas go nuts over this," he muttered.
"What is this you have not reported?" Her voice was sharp, totally professional, and blew away any residual thoughts Rick Delanty might have had. She came into the capsule and unclipped a lead from Rick's union suit. She plugged it into a thermometer readout. The other end of the lead went inside the long johns and up inside Rick Delanty. All astronauts became gun-shy about their anuses—not that it did them any good.
Leonilla said, "Have you eaten anything at all?" She read the thermometer and made a note.
"Nothing that stays down."
"So you are dehydrated. We will try these, first. Chew this capsule. No—do not swallow it whole. Chew it."
Rick chewed. "Jesus Christ, what is this stuff? That's the