Free Arkwright by Allen Steele Page A

she’d have to start thinking soon about getting a cab to the train station. “I’m sure you have, but—”
    â€œLet me tell you about one of them.” Harry sat back in his chair, crossing his ankles together as his gaze returned to the window. “Back in ’72, a science writer by the name of Richard Hoagland—you’ve probably heard of him, he later made a big deal about the whole ‘Face on Mars’ thing—had a brainstorm: charter a cruise ship to anchor off Cape Canaveral and then get a bunch of scientists and science fiction writers to play host for the Apollo 17 launch. He got all the big names, and a few guys like me, as well.”
    His tone became reflective. “It was an eventful evening, in more ways than one.”
    *   *   *
    At the midnight hour, the moonless night was clear and filled with stars and unexpectedly cool for the Florida coast even at that time of the year. A little while earlier, a couple of stewards had moved through the crowd gathered on the aft pool deck of the SS Statendam , passing out wool lap blankets to anyone who wanted them. Harry had almost taken a pass, but the December chill won out over pride. Sitting in a lounge chair on the starboard side, he draped the blanket over his legs and then buttoned up his sport coat and tucked his hands into his pockets.
    â€œIf they delay this thing any longer,” he muttered, “I’m going to ask for my money back.”
    Leaning against the rail, Nat looked at him in surprise. “I thought you got a free ticket.”
    â€œI did. I’m talking about NASA.” Harry turned to George. “Can’t you guys get anything right?”
    â€œDon’t blame me. I’m not working there anymore.” George was also huddled into his coat; he clasped a steaming cup of hot chocolate between his gloved hands. Harry kicked himself for forgetting that George’s job at the Marshall Space Flight Center had ended the day Apollo 17 was rolled out from the Vehicle Assembly Building. “Be patient. These things don’t get off as efficiently as they do in your stories.”
    Harry grunted and said nothing. Instead, he gazed across the dark ocean at the distant lights of Cape Kennedy. Seven miles away, both illuminated and miniaturized by the crisscrossed beams of searchlights that lanced high into the heavens, the Saturn V was a tiny white i rising from the seaside mound of Pad 39-A. Apollo 17 was supposed to have lifted off at 9:38 P.M. , but the countdown had been halted at T-minus thirty seconds. According to Walter Cronkite, who was narrating the launch on the TV in the ship’s bar, there had been some sort of onboard computer glitch. That was over two and a half hour hours ago. It was now twenty after twelve, and Harry was beginning to wonder if Becky had the right idea by going to bed early.
    What a foolish thought. Harry gazed down the length of the cruise ship’s aft deck. Gathered around the swimming pool, which deckhands had covered with a canvas tarp once it became obvious that the night was going to be too cold for anyone to take a dip, was science fiction’s old guard, the writers who’d imagined space travel long before it became a reality, socializing with the best and brightest of American intelligentsia. Near the stern, Fred and Carol Pohl chatted with Isaac Asimov and his new wife, Janet. Seated at a table beside the pool was an unholy quorum of Art Clarke, Marvin Minsky, and Carl Sagan. Ted Sturgeon was huddled with Analog ’s new editor, Ben Bova—Ben had been running the magazine formerly called Astounding for nearly a year now, but Harry was still getting used to the fact that John Campbell was gone—while former astronaut Ed Mitchell and NBC anchorman Hugh Downs were having a drink and a laugh with Bob and Ginny Heinlein.
    The only person who was out of place was Katherine Anne Porter. Playboy had commissioned a