Hudson said, a bit out of breath. He removed his overcoat, slung it over the back of a white nauga chair and slumped into the chair. “As I told you on the phone, our biggest concern is that the comet’s speed has increased dramatically. We now estimate its arrival in seven days rather than thirteen.”
“Oh damn!” Colonel Peebles said, speaking in an exaggerated lilt. He took a seat in an adjacent chair, crossing his legs gracefully.
“I hate surprises,” Munoz said. Continuing to glare at Hudson, he popped a sleep-sub pill and washed it down with a water capsule.
“And I’ve just discovered a second computer error,” Hudson said.
“The new Comp six-oh-two?” Munoz asked.
“No. This time it was the Willys twelve-forty that calculated the comet’s ETA . . . off by six hours.”
“In the wrong direction, I presume?” Munoz said.
“Naturally.”
Munoz shook his head, stared glumly at the floor.
“The comet is not behaving according to known laws of physics,” Hudson said, rubbing the fringe of black hair on one side of his head. “Just one hour ago, it made a ninety-four degree turn, veering off into space for a time. Then it made another sharp turn, back to a collision course with Earth.”
“How odd!” Peebles said. “What are we to do?” He sat sideways in the chair to look at Hudson, an arm draped across the chair back.
“Silence!” Munoz commanded, shooting a fiery glance at his adjutant. “I have to think!” Munoz moto-slippered to the couch, sat down with his hands grasping his thighs. “How could the comet change like that?” he asked, staring at the floor.
Hudson shrugged. “I don’t know. This thing’s a complete mystery to all of . . .” He stopped as Munoz looked up and glared at him. Such words had been spoken before.
“Get out new orders, Allen,” Munoz said. “Have the crew ship ready three days earlier . . . by Tuesday afternoon at fourteen hundred hours.” He turned to Hudson.
Hudson spoke as Munoz was formulating a new thought. “I’ll call Saint Elba and have the mass drivers moved up too.”
“Right,” Munoz said. “And tell ’em to double-check the E-Cell charging bays. We don’t want any last minute problems.”
“I’ll reiterate that.”
“Anything else?” Munoz asked.
“We’ll have to set up new recharging stations along the route in deep space,” Hudson said. “The others are placed incorrectly for the new course and time. I’ll refigure it right away.”
“Good,” Munoz said. “We still have the matter of the pilot. There’s no time left . . .”
“Have any more garbage balls spoken to you?”
“What do you mean by that?” Munoz snapped.
“Maybe you were tired. The mind and eyes can play tricks. . . . ”
“It was in flames, and came right at my face! I was there! And listen to the clincher: there is a Sidney Malloy!”
“Yeah?”
“He’s a nobody in the Presidential Bureau—Central Forms.”
“You’re not actually thinking of using him?” Hudson asked.
“I have a strong feeling—call it intuition, I don’t know. Something tells me. . . . ”
“We need to go on more than intuition,” Hudson said. “Everything rides on this mission, Arturo. This calls for the best, only the very best.”
“I know.”
“Did it occur to you that your trash can magic trick might have been performed by the Black Box?”
“No,” Munoz said. “I’m sure they had nothing to do with it.”
“On what evidence? You puzzle me, Arturo—relying so heavily on intuition for critical decisions.”
The General’s black pupils became steely hard. “And you are a man of facts, Dr. Hudson. Precise scientific facts.” Munoz fingered the burnished gold cross which hung from his neck.
“I am—and there is a concise scientific answer for every question.”
“Don’t be so sure of that. I’ll tell you one thing. Anyone that can make a ball of burning trash speak to me has my undivided attention. The voice told me to use