Part 5 - The Days the World Stood Still
On the other side of Kerbin, wherever the skies were clear enough, kerbals braved the chilly evening air in their thousands to send Pioneer 4 on its way. Observatories offered guided tours and a chance to watch the departure through their telescopes. Professional and amateur astronomers alike offered their services to friends, family or, more often than not, impromptu groups of strangers. Some had telescopes of their own, others watched through binoculars. Those that had neither simply stared up at the sky and crossed their fingers.
"Flight, Pioneer 4. Our board is green; requesting telemetry check."
Jeb's voice crackled out from countless radio sets. Gloved fingers twisted dials, trying to tune out the worst of the static.
"Pioneer 4, Flight. We copy your board is green. Stand by."
The radios fell silent. The sky-watching crowds milled around anxiously, hands tucked under heavy outdoor ponchos, stamping their feet to work some little warmth back into frozen toes.
"Telemetry confirmed. Pioneer 4, you are Go for TMI."
"Copy, Flight. Go for TMI. KDS ignition in twelve minutes and counting."
Older kerbals reached under their clothing to retrieve ornate timepieces from around their necks. Notebooks fell open to well thumbed pages. Astronomers handed out photocopied star maps, identifying constellations, pointing out where Pioneer 4 was due to appear in the night sky and occasionally took a map from a confused-looking kerbal, turned it upside down and gently handed it back.
"Pioneer 4, Flight. Booster is Go, starting re-press and ullage sequence."
"Copy, Flight. Guidance is Go."
"You're looking good, Pioneer. Thirty seconds."
Far away from Mission Control, all eyes turned skywards. Binoculars swung up, hunting for the right stars. Telescope owners made last second adjustments to focus and angles with fingers that trembled even inside their gloves.
"...three…two…one…Ignition!"
A new comet burst into view over Kerbin.
Awestruck kerbals shook their companions by the shoulder, pointing wordlessly at the sky. One telescope owner reluctantly lifted her head from the eyepiece and stared up at the sky blinking water out of her eyes. A huge smile lit up her face as she saw the glowing trail pointing the way from the last sliver of setting sun out to the starry skies.
"Eight dot two kps. KDS tank pressures holding steady, guidance is nominal. Clear telemetry links through primary and backup channels."
For several long minutes the crowds watched in wonder, frozen feet all but forgotten. Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the comet vanished.
"Ten dot two kps. Ten dot... and shutdown! We're running the numbers, Pioneer but that looks like a good burn."
In the days that followed, schools across Kerbin sprouted Pioneer 4 posters and activity charts from every classroom wall. Final year students - and their teachers - struggled with equations and proudly marked off distances and velocities. The youngest kerblets, with no less pride, coloured in pictures of Kerbin and the Mün and filled in boxes, along stylised flight paths, with the days of the week written in big, careful letters.
Students of all ages, whether Doreni, Wakiran or Kolan, put the finishing touches on model rockets and Mün landers that ran the gamut from lovingly constructed, glue-smeared assemblies of cardboard boxes, empty plastic bottles and tinfoil, to replica spacecraft that, in the words of Ornie Kerman to one delighted, final year class: "you could fill up with fuel and I'd fly it myself."
In the fields and Groves, the surest way for a kermol to make him or herself popular was to bring a portable radio along for the day's work and keep it permanently tuned to KBS Space News. A close-run second way was to bring a spare set of batteries for somebody else's otherwise defunct radio. Lunchtimes saw groups of kermol gathered together, perched on whatever impromptu seat came to hand and listening to the latest news or broadcast from Pioneer 4. In the evenings, kerbals stuffed themselves into packed village halls to watch the evening KBS bulletins.
Near a bleak mountain range bordering Firesvar, Wakira and Kolus, a lone soldier set out across the tundra, carrying a pair of fabric wrapped poles. In full view of the border forces of all three Regionalities, he, or possibly she, laid down their weapons, took thirty-seven measured paces and planted both poles in the ground. Before long, two makeshift banners flapped in the wind, one daubed with the flag of all Kerbin and the other with a tilted rocket streaming fire. A gloved hand retrieved a radio from a field pack and presently Leland Kerman's tinny voice drifted over the tundra.
In time, the other sides sent out their own volunteers and they too put down their weapons and sat down beneath the flags. More soldiers came to join them and then still more. One squad rigged up a portable field shelter, another produced water bottles, kettles and camp stoves. Rations were shared out and, regardless of origin, commiserated on by all. One sergeant unearthed a bottle of distilled redfruit juice from his pack and neither his squad mates, nor the suddenly much cheerier kerbals around them, felt inclined to point out the numerous standing orders that he was breaching. Teams were dispatched to fetch additional supplies, tents and, most importantly, extra radios.
Along border after disputed border, kerbals of all Regionalities came together under the twin flags and, for an all too brief handful of days, Kerbin was reunited.
In the towns and cities, enterprising cinema proprietors began running regular 'Mün Matinees' for their customers to watch the latest, often shaky, film footage from space. Queues quickly became legendary with especially keen kerbals bringing sleeping bags and snacks, the better to wait through the night for the first morning show. Kerbals walking to work in the morning treated the queues with tolerant good humour, some making impromptu coffee runs for waiting friends or family, others hastily booking a quick day off and joining the same queue that evening.
Even the drive-in cinemas, long the exclusive haunt of young kerman couples, were as likely to be showing starscapes and spacecraft as the latest date night movie. To the delight of local news outlets everywhere, more than a few young kerman unexpectedly met their future in-laws for the first time at the local outdoor screen, introduced to them by blushing, stammering partners.
At the Capital building, seven huge screens were hastily erected between its rearmost arches, and semi-circles of temporary bleachers set up in front of them. By the second day of Pioneer 4's flight, construction workers and the occasional curious tourist were camped out on the bleachers, watching the latest news from space.
By the end of the third day, the bleachers were full and by the end of the fourth day they were mere islands in a sea of green faces. Those with seats gradually gave them up for the elderly or parents with the youngest kerblets. A handful stayed where they were, unfocused eyes staring unseeing through the crowds. In their minds eye, they too were strapped into a space capsule, Kerbin behind them, Mün to the fore; living vicariously on the very edge of kerballed experience.
Knowing this well, their friends simply smiled understandingly and gently led them away.
On the morning of the fifth day, the crowds watched in astonishment as a troop of kerbals hurried out from a side door and set up a lectern and set of twelve ornate chairs in front of the centre screen. Other discreetly dressed kerbals fanned out through the bleachers, murmuring into radio microphones clipped to their lapels. Then, amidst a sudden hush, the back doors to the Capital building opened and a group of figures emerged. Bowing to the crowds as they went, the Council of Twelve Pillars took their seats and like countless other kerbals across the world they sat in silence.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.