"But I'm still finishing the trajectory-default analysis I was supposed
to do," LeFarge said to Dore Peretz, hoping he could stall. "I'm only
half--"
"I'm telling you to abort those runs." The truth, Peretz reflected, was
that Ramirez had jumped the gun on the trajectory analysis. Maybe he
just wanted to keep this computer jockey busy, or maybe he didn't
understand the technical side of things well enough. In any case, it
had to be redone since the crucial payload parameters were going to be
new, a substantial weight differential that would impact the power
input controls. "Kill what you're doing and let me see what you've got
so far. If you're on the right track, then we'll do a quick rerun with
revised numbers."
LeFarge grimaced, then turned back to the keyboard and gave the order
to abort, directing the output to the battery of printers. The quiet
hum of zipping lasers began, barely audible above the ambient noise of
the room. When the first printer finished, Peretz ripped out the stack
of paper and began looking it over.
"All right." He nodded with satisfaction. "This is enough. The power
inputs"--he pointed--"right here, will need to be reentered to conform to
the altered weight coefficients of the new payload. I'll have to get
them."
He turned away and clicked on his black Kenwood walkie-talkie. Moments
later he was asking somebody some technical questions. He then waited,
humming to himself, while the answers were procured. Finally he nodded
and jotted them down on the bottom of the printout.
"Got it. You double-verified, right? Okay. Ten-four." He clicked off
the handset and looked up. "All fixed." He walked back and laid down
the paper on LeFarge's desk. "Okay, start over and run it with these."
Georges looked at the numbers. The new payload was 98.3 kilograms.
There it was. What now?
He knew the answer. He had no choice but to give Peretz what he wanted.
He had planned to make some changes in SORT that would screw up the
whole launch routine, but now, with the Israeli looking over his
shoulder, that was going to be impossible. This creep knew exactly how
the program worked. He probably could spot any changes a mile away.
Cally, Cally, where are you? Are you okay? Are you getting help? Let me
know where you are, at least. I can't stop these guys all by myself.
He sighed, tugged at his wisp of beard, and called up the data input
file for SORT. Then he began inserting the new parameters. Around
Command the other staffers were perfunctorily carrying out housekeeping
chores at their workstations, the routine checks and runs they did
every day. LeFarge suspected the stakes had just been raised, but he
had no idea what they were.