Seveneves. Neal Stephenson

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      Eventually someone went and got another box truck. Apparently the rental agency was letting them take them for free. Some day laborers wandered down the street from a home improvement center and helped pack. The home improvement market had gone bust. Doob saw traces of Amelia in their faces and wondered how they had first heard the news.

      Six of the kids packed themselves and their computers, clothes, and as many tools as they owned or could borrow into the SUV that Doob had rented at the airport. They roped a couple of bicycles and some camping gear to the luggage rack. Doob had no idea where they were going, or why, but they seemed to be planning to construct a new civilization out of blue tarps and zip ties.

      They ended up in a caravan of twenty vehicles, headed east out of town at about two in the afternoon. At this time of the year, at Seattle’s high latitude, that gave them about two hours of remaining daylight.

      Most of the kids fell asleep immediately. Henry, riding shotgun, made a touching effort to stay awake and then fell into slumber. Henry was a sweet kid and Doob knew that when he woke up he would apologize. But Henry wasn’t a parent, and he didn’t understand that when you were, almost nothing was more satisfying than seeing your kid sleep.

      So, feeling as content as it was possible to be under the circumstances, Doob drove into the darkling mountains with his SUV-load of slumbering passengers. The caravan gradually dissolved into the general stream of traffic. Most of the passenger cars peeled off at the suburban exits, before the road began to gain serious altitude. Doob wondered, as he always did, what the hell they were doing: Continuing to go to jobs and school, just to fill the days before the end? But it was none of his business.

      Beyond Issaquah, any vehicle still on the interstate was probably headed for the high cold desert on the east side of the mountains. A few people were still interested in skiing—skiing!—but those cars were easily identified. Most of the other vehicles fit the general description of those that had been a part of their original caravan from the university: heavy-laden box trucks, SUVs and pickups with provisions and camping gear.

      Doob realized that he had somehow become a sort of Okie.

      Except that the Okies had at least known where they were going.

      The eternal Seattle drizzle turned into alternating belts of mist and cold rain, forcing him to keep one hand busy on the wiper control. The raindrops became cloudy with ice as he gained altitude, and then turned into snow. The roadway was still clear, but the shoulders became fuzzy with slush that gradually encroached on the traffic lanes. The speed of travel dropped to forty, thirty, twenty miles an hour, and the road ahead congealed into a slurry of taillights as lowering steel-gray clouds clamped down on the remaining traces of daylight.

      A few semi-articulated rigs were laboring up the approach to the pass in the slow lane. Some of these were just conventional boxy trucks and so there was no guessing what might be in them, but Doob thought he was picking out an unusual amount of weird industrial traffic: tankers carrying cryogenic liquids, flatbeds with bundles of tubing and structural steel.

      The clouds flashed, bright enough to make some of the sleeping students flinch and stir in the backseat. Out of habit, Doob began counting zero Mississippi one Mississippi two … and when he reached something like nine or ten he felt, as much as heard, the sonic boom. As a child he’d have assumed it was a lightning bolt. Now he interpreted all such events as incoming chunks of moon shrapnel. This one had passed within about three kilometers. A secondary boom, several seconds later, suggested that it had hit the ground, as opposed to just breaking up in the atmosphere as most of them did. So it had been a relatively large piece.

      It had been a day or two since Doob had checked the site where his grad students had been tallying observed bolides vs. the predictions of their model. He didn’t check it very often because, after some jitter in the first few weeks, the model had been refined to the point where it tracked observations to within a reasonable statistical range. This, of course, was good news for the model and bad news for the human race, since it meant that they were still on track for the White Sky to happen, and the Hard Rain to begin, in another twenty-one or twenty-two months. If memory served, strikes like the one he had just observed were probably happening about twenty times a day worldwide. So it was mildly remarkable that he’d been close to one, but nothing to write home about.

      A few minutes later the taillights ahead of him flared as people applied their brakes. After inching along for a short distance traffic came to a complete stop. This woke up some of the students, who remarked on it sleepily. After ten minutes had passed without movement, Henry climbed out, stood up on the SUV’s running board, and began loosening ropes holding a bicycle in place on the roof.

      Doob sat warm and safe in the driver’s seat and watched his son pedal off between the lanes of stopped traffic with precisely the same heartsick feeling as when the boy had gone off on his first solo bicycle ride in the streets of Pasadena.

      He was back all of three minutes later. “A rig jackknifed just before the top of the pass,” he said. “An oversized load, a piece of a gantry, I think.”

      Gantry. There was a word that activated deep memories in Doob’s brain. Only used in connection with launch pads, only spoken by the likes of Walter Cronkite and Frank Reynolds in the deep nicotine-cured anchorman tonalities of the Apollo days.

      Nothing was happening, so they pulled their winter coats out of the back, bundled up, and hiked up the road to see. A lot of people were doing this. This struck Doob as unusual. The normal behavior was to wait in the car, thumb the iPhone, listen to a book on tape, and wait for the authorities to come and deal with it.

      The stranded truck was only about half a mile ahead of them. It looked to have gone into a spectacular skid. The colossal weight of the gantry—a welded steel truss looking like a section of a railway trestle—had swung the rear end of the truck forward and sideways, sweeping across all lanes of traffic and finally grinding to a stop by flopping over onto its side and then destroying about a hundred yards of guardrail. Behind it a few cars had spun out as their drivers had stomped the brakes, and a few people were dealing with the aftermath of minor rear-end fender benders, but no one seemed to have gotten seriously injured.

      The pedestrian traffic toward the crash had been considerable, and yet Doob saw few of the sorts of people he would classify as gawkers or rubberneckers. Where were they all going? As he and Henry and the other students drew closer he saw cars moving around, headlights sweeping across the wreck to better illuminate it, and then he saw a stream of people squeezing through the gap to the other side, or clambering through the space between the tractor and the trailer. Self-appointed safety wardens had stationed themselves at critical locations to focus the white beams of their LED flashlights on trip hazards and useful handholds. Doob and the others crowded through those gaps and then broke free to the far side of the wreck. The view here was worth a look. The wet interstate, completely empty of traffic, stretched away from them. A ski area, lit up for night use, spread up the mountainside to their right. In the distance maybe ten, twenty miles away, a streaky patch of mountainside was flickering a lambent orange through intervening veils of snow and mist: the impact site of the bolide. Doob saw now how it had all happened. The meteor had passed overhead. To him it had just been a flash above the clouds, but to the people cresting the pass at the same moment it must have been visible as it streaked into the ground and plowed up a mile-long stretch of forest. Cars must have faltered and strayed out of their lanes. The driver of the truck had been forced to apply his brakes and the tires of the trailer had broken loose from the slushy pavement.

      The number of people on this side of the wreck must have been well over a hundred.

      Twenty minutes later, there were enough of them to flip the rig back up onto its wheels. Like СКАЧАТЬ