Free Moonfall by Jack McDevitt Page A

announced his intention to step aside. It was a pity; there was still a great deal to do. Whoever succeeded him would have to face some tough decisions. He’d been well on the way to establishing a reputation that would have placed him among the outstanding presidents. Now everything would depend on whether his successor finished what Henry had begun. Consequently, while maintaining formal neutrality among the candidates, he was hoping that anyone other than Charlie got the nomination. He liked Charlie, but the man lacked the political savvy and will to get things done.
    Henry was the country’s second African-American president. (Culpepper had been the first.) He’d been grateful to be second. Everyone had stood around waiting for Culpepper to make a mistake, to get something wrong, to lean too far left or right. The old son of a bitch had walked a tightrope for eight tough years. But he’d pulled it off.
    Now it looked as if a major problem had fallen out of the sky. He doubted they really need worry about Moon fragments raining down on the world, but the American investment on Luna was something else. The major world powers were all shareholders in Moonbase International, and the loss of the facility was going to constitute a debacle of major proportions. The glitter would go off his name, and he’d be forever associated with it, as Lyndon Johnson was with Vietnam, and Herbert Hoover with the Depression.
    “Is there any chance of a mistake?” he asked hopefully.
    “They’re still checking the numbers, Mr. President. But I don’t think so.”
    He glared at her. “Wonderful. We spend a couple of trillion dollars to get Moonbase open for, what, a week? And then close it down again.”
    Juarez said nothing.
    The president’s mouth was dry. His first thought was that, however he proceeded, there was going to be a lot of finger-pointing.
    Moonbase, Director’s Office. 8:27 A.M.
    Evelyn Hampton was conferring with Jack Chandler, in his first official day on the job, over the remaining senior vacancies. Chandler had worked in executive capacities for years with various corporations with which Evelyn had direct or indirect connections. He’d twice come to her assistance, helping to get new operations up and running. It was his specialty and he was very good at it.
    Moreover, he’d become a kind of father figure for her, an advisor in matters both professional and personal, the man she went to when she was in trouble.
    He was in his fifties, a widower with three kids who were all off on their own. He was mildly overweight, with that washed-out look that people have who’ve recently lost fifty or so pounds. Chandler had suffered a severe heart attack the previous Christmas and had been put on a stringent diet.
    Evelyn, anxious to help this closest of friends, had gone farther: She’d inquired whether the light lunar gravity wouldn’t help Chandler by easing the strain on his damaged heart. There’d been talk all along of providing a sanctum sanctorum on the Moon for heart patients, and this seemed a good way to get the ball rolling. The disadvantage was that his physician didn’t think he’d ever be able to return groundside again.
    Chandler was more than willing. So Evelyn had gotten the director she wanted, and simultaneously performed an act ofkindness for a man to whom she was indebted. Did he feel better? “Twenty years younger,” he said. “I’d gotten to a point that it was like having a lump of lead in my chest.” He beamed at her. “The weight’s gone.”
    They were debating the merits of the applicants on the short list for his assistant’s job when the phone rang. “It’s Orly Carpenter, Mr. Chandler,” the secretary’s voice said. “He wants to speak with Dr. Hampton.”
    Carpenter was the NASA operations director at Houston. Chandler passed the phone.
    “Good morning, Orly,” said Evelyn. “How’s everything?”
    “Not good.” Carpenter was an ex-astronaut whose voice tended to