Be careful.
The unrelenting sunlight was shining directly on the metal hull of Lunokhod, parked next to Bulldog on the Moon’s surface, and reflecting up off the ground around it on all sides. If there had been a thermometer touching the rover’s exposed magnesium-alloy skin, it would have read 242 degrees Fahrenheit. The metal was conducting that heat through to the inside, where the energy from the lump of polonium and the quiescent electronics added to it. The small ventilation fan was earnestly doing its best, pulling the nitrogen air past all the warm surfaces and blowing it hopefully up to the radiator to cool.
Like a blanket, though, the layer of dirt that Chad had spread on the radiator’s surface was holding the heat in. The bottom of the radiator was starting to get warm to the touch. Instead of cold air flowing back down from the top, with each passing minute the return air was getting hotter. A cycle feeding on itself, where even the small heat from the fan motor was making things worse.
Yet most of its systems were still asleep, patiently waiting for the big antenna on the far side of the Earth to rotate back into view. As soon as it did, small timers would go off, the high-gain antenna would move to point exactly to the planned angles, and Lunokhod would come fully to life, everything on, awaiting its next command.
As soon as that happened, the problem was going to get rapidly worse, turning the rover into a forced-air oven on the Moon, baking all its delicate circuits to death. Unless the team in Simferopol could recognize the problem and figure out a way to solve it.
A race with a thermometer.
Kaz was beat. He’d driven right past the U-Joint, headed for home and a much-needed night on his own.
He pulled the fridge door open and opted for what he saw; bacon, eggs, toast and beer. The sound and smell of the bacon starting to fry in the pan set his mouth watering; his first gulp of cold beer from the bottle cut through it perfectly. He broke two eggs in next to the bacon and pushed two slices of bread down in the toaster.
He looked out the window absently as he waited for the toast to pop, reviewing the day. It had been an unprecedented one, but the crew was safe and Luke’s body had been buried with honor. He raised his beer before taking another swig and toasted him. Here’s to you, buddy. He picked up the frying pan and swirled it slightly, freeing the still-runny eggs from sticking, then set it back down. He realized he felt deeply uneasy, the inner voice he’d learned to listen to as a pilot, the one that paid attention to subtleties and tried to make patterns out of the seeming randomness sending off various alarms.
What have I missed? He took another pull on the beer, deliberately letting his mind relax.
The recurring double clicks popped into his head. If that happened again, he was going to pounce on it and worry it until it was solved.
But the obvious major problem was Chad. Could he really have done such a wicked thing? How was it possible that he’d made it this far, with all the hoops he’d had to jump through, and still kept himself so secret? And why would he kill Tom? The only reason he could come up with was that Chad had been desperate to get on this mission. How did that even make sense? It wasn’t as if the whole program was over. There’d still have been chances for an astronaut as technically gifted as Chad to get to space.
The toast popped as he tilted the bottle up and drained the last of the beer; he got the butter and another bottle out of the fridge. As he slid the bacon and eggs onto a plate, he realized how hungry he was, and ate rapidly until he was mopping up the last of the egg with the second piece of toast. He slid the plate and cutlery into open slots in the dishwasher and took the remaining half beer into the living room.
He picked up the Gretsch, letting his hands play whatever chords they chose as he looked out into the darkness. He recognized a couple of sad songs and exhaled, deeply, twice, feeling the exhaustion.
The last of the beer suddenly lost its appeal, and he set it down, put the guitar back into its stand and took himself to bed.
52
Simferopol, Soviet Ukraine
Sitting at his console in Simferopol, waiting for moonrise, Gabdul allowed himself to feel proud. It had been his idea to drive Lunokhod in a max-speed dash across the lunar dust to get close to the American lander. He’d pictured how the iconic photo would look: the first cosmonaut descending the ladder to the Moon, with Lunokhod posed heroically in the background. The established presence of Soviet technology as a perfect counterpoint to the American ship newly on the surface; a seasoned Russian explorer there to greet it. He just wished someone had thought to paint a large red hammer and sickle on the side of the rover.