remained sharp, and somewhere in the midst of all his dreaming, he sensed that he was not alone in the room. The feeling grew stronger even as he dreamed he was up on a high, snow-capped mountain, looking down on a burning city below.
Finally, somehow, in some way, he was able to open his eyes. Vaguely, through the sleep and the faint light of his room, he saw that, indeed, he was not alone. There was a figure sitting in the chair directly across from his bed. It was a man. His legs and arms were crossed in a very familiar way. He was staring very intently at Frost, his features wrinkled in worry on his pudgy, Irish-red face.
Frost raised himself slowly and only then did he realize he could see right through the man.
“Hello there, Frostie,” he heard the words echo in his room, the last one tinged with a definite brogue. “It’s been a long time…”
Frost’s eyes were now wide open. His jaw had dropped and he was trembling. He recognized the man and the voice immediately.
“Jeezus, Fitz!” he cried out. “Is it really you?” The ghost of Mike Fitzgerald laughed once, then his face returned to its former frown.
“Yes, it’s me, Frostie,” he said sadly. “In the pink, if not the flesh…”
Eight
In Orbit
I T WAS A GENTLE beeping that shook Jim Cook out of his zero-gravity slumber.
The commanding officer of the elite JAWS special operations team was floating in place down on the crew compartment level of the Zon, his shoulders and knees straining slightly against a pair of sleep tethers. Two bubbles of saliva were hovering approximately three inches from his nose. People tended to drool in space, especially when they were in a deep sleep. This particular pair of sputum had been floating in front of Cook for the past hour or so.
The beeping woke him not because of its soft volume, but because it was a sound he hadn’t heard on the Zon before. It was a pulsing tone, a repetition of the slightly tense notes of A and G. It was not a warning buzzer per se. It was the spacecraft’s earth-to-space radio, and this was the first time it had come alive since the Zon had reached orbit.
This mission into space was the most secret operation ever undertaken by the United Americans. “Top Secret” didn’t come close to describing the security surrounding the Zon’s launch and the ensuing space-chase. Any radio communication between the spacecraft and earth controllers ran the risk of exposing the whole operation. It had been agreed upon from the beginning that contact between earth and the Zon would be nonexistent. The spacecraft would be on its own, running silent as it pursued the supercriminal Viktor II. This blackout decree would be breached only in case of an extreme emergency on either side, and then they would speak only in code.
This is why hearing the sound of the radio come alive woke Cook so quickly.
He shook the sleep from his eyes, unlashed his tethers, and pushed himself across the compartment to the radio set. A gentle engagement of the receive button was rewarded with a violent burst of static.
“Behold a mystery,” Cook heard a strangely echoing voice intone. “We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. In a twinkling of an eye, a trumpet shall sound. And the dead shall be raised. And we shall be changed.”
Still groggy, Cook thought at first he’d somehow broken into a stray radio or TV transmission from earth. Was this nonsense really originating from Mission Control at the Cape?
He quickly consulted a card listing all the emergency security phrases that was floating next to the radio set. None of them matched what he had just heard.
The radio began beeping again. He pushed the receive button and again was assaulted by a burst of static.
“We who are alive shall not prevent them who are asleep,” the same voice began again. “The Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout. And with the voice of an archangel, the dead shall rise first…”
Cook was now
Finally, somehow, in some way, he was able to open his eyes. Vaguely, through the sleep and the faint light of his room, he saw that, indeed, he was not alone. There was a figure sitting in the chair directly across from his bed. It was a man. His legs and arms were crossed in a very familiar way. He was staring very intently at Frost, his features wrinkled in worry on his pudgy, Irish-red face.
Frost raised himself slowly and only then did he realize he could see right through the man.
“Hello there, Frostie,” he heard the words echo in his room, the last one tinged with a definite brogue. “It’s been a long time…”
Frost’s eyes were now wide open. His jaw had dropped and he was trembling. He recognized the man and the voice immediately.
“Jeezus, Fitz!” he cried out. “Is it really you?” The ghost of Mike Fitzgerald laughed once, then his face returned to its former frown.
“Yes, it’s me, Frostie,” he said sadly. “In the pink, if not the flesh…”
Eight
In Orbit
I T WAS A GENTLE beeping that shook Jim Cook out of his zero-gravity slumber.
The commanding officer of the elite JAWS special operations team was floating in place down on the crew compartment level of the Zon, his shoulders and knees straining slightly against a pair of sleep tethers. Two bubbles of saliva were hovering approximately three inches from his nose. People tended to drool in space, especially when they were in a deep sleep. This particular pair of sputum had been floating in front of Cook for the past hour or so.
The beeping woke him not because of its soft volume, but because it was a sound he hadn’t heard on the Zon before. It was a pulsing tone, a repetition of the slightly tense notes of A and G. It was not a warning buzzer per se. It was the spacecraft’s earth-to-space radio, and this was the first time it had come alive since the Zon had reached orbit.
This mission into space was the most secret operation ever undertaken by the United Americans. “Top Secret” didn’t come close to describing the security surrounding the Zon’s launch and the ensuing space-chase. Any radio communication between the spacecraft and earth controllers ran the risk of exposing the whole operation. It had been agreed upon from the beginning that contact between earth and the Zon would be nonexistent. The spacecraft would be on its own, running silent as it pursued the supercriminal Viktor II. This blackout decree would be breached only in case of an extreme emergency on either side, and then they would speak only in code.
This is why hearing the sound of the radio come alive woke Cook so quickly.
He shook the sleep from his eyes, unlashed his tethers, and pushed himself across the compartment to the radio set. A gentle engagement of the receive button was rewarded with a violent burst of static.
“Behold a mystery,” Cook heard a strangely echoing voice intone. “We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. In a twinkling of an eye, a trumpet shall sound. And the dead shall be raised. And we shall be changed.”
Still groggy, Cook thought at first he’d somehow broken into a stray radio or TV transmission from earth. Was this nonsense really originating from Mission Control at the Cape?
He quickly consulted a card listing all the emergency security phrases that was floating next to the radio set. None of them matched what he had just heard.
The radio began beeping again. He pushed the receive button and again was assaulted by a burst of static.
“We who are alive shall not prevent them who are asleep,” the same voice began again. “The Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout. And with the voice of an archangel, the dead shall rise first…”
Cook was now
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