Two hours later he was sitting in a special foam cushion chair aboard a rocketplane as it bit into Earth's atmosphere. Kinsman was encased in a mechanical exoskeleton: a frame- work of metal tubing that ran along his legs, torso, arms, and neck. The silvery metal tubes were jointed in all the places where the human body was jointed, although the broad metal plates running along Kinsman's back could never be as supple as a human spine. Tiny electrical servomotors moved the suit in response to Kinsman's own muscular actions.
The rocketplane glided deeper into Earth's atmosphere, shuddering and groaning as the shock-heated air made its external skin glowing hot. Kinsman felt the gee forces build- ing up and decided to begin testing his new skeleton. He raised his right arm off the seat's armrest. A barely audible hum of electric motors and the arm lifted smoothly, easily. Yet when Kinsman tried to flex his fingers, which had no auxiliary help, it felt as if he were trying to squeeze a sponge-rubber ball rather than empty air.
The exoskeleton would allow a normal man working in Earth's gravity to lift half-ton loads with one hand. Kinsman hoped the suit would allow him to stand and walk properly. The back of the suit included a rigid framework, much like a hiker's pack frame, to which would be attached the electrical power supply for the suit and the heart pump, the pacemaker controls and motor, and a small green tank containing an hour's supply of oxygen. Resting on the seat beside Kinsman was a clip-on oxygen mask. Jill had insisted on its being part of the equipment he carried.
It was difficult for him to turn his head because the neck supports of the exoskeleton were quite stiff. So, like a man with a sore neck, Kinsman carefully edged his whole body slightly sideways, restrained by the safety harness cutting across his shoulders and lap.
He looked at Landau and Harriman, sitting in the double 519 seats across from him. They were unfettered except for their safety belts, and deep in animated conversation. The rest of the rockctplane was empty except for the flight crew up in the cockpit and a trio of stewardesses who had all shown profes- sional nurse's or paramedic's certifications to Jill before she agreed to let them serve on this brief flight.
Kinsman leaned back in his seat, to the accompaniment of a miniature chorus of electric hums. He closed his eyes. He knew perfectly well what was happening in the cockpit now—or, at least, what used to happen when he flew such craft, decades ago. Now they were controlled from the ground; everything was automatic, the airport computer giving commands to the ship's computer. The flight crew was there only in case of emergency.
But in his mind he felt the bucking control column in his hands as the ship buffeted through maximum aerodynamic drag. He saw the firetrail of re-entry as the ship blazed through the atmosphere like a falling meteor, torturing the air around it into incandescence. He remembered one flight he and Frank Colt had . . .
"Touchdown in three minutes," announced the little speaker grille. Even the voice sounded mechanical, automat- ic. No emotion at all.
Despite himself, Kinsman grinned. Only an old fart reminisces about the good old days.
There were no windows on the rocketplane, but the tiny display screen set into the chairback in front of him showed a pilot's-eye view of the craft's approach to JFK Aerospace- port. Sunlight glittered off steel-gray water, uncountable structures took form on the screen: rows of houses, factories, warehouses, parking garages, towers, churches, shopping malls, bridges, roads, streets—all out in the open, under the strangely pale and diluted sun.
Peering intently at the little screen, Kinsman still could not see any people, or even any individual autos on the streets. Just an occasional gray bus or olive-colored truck that looked more like an Army vehicle than a civilian. The long dark corridor of the runway rushed up at them. A jarring bounce, then another, and then the muffled roar of braking jets told Kinsman they were down. He smiled to himself. We could land 'em a lot smoother than that, he thought. The 520 computer doesn't take any pride in its touchdowns.
And then he realized they were on the ground. On Earth. He did not move until the craft rolled to a stop at the terminal building. One of the stewardesses helped him undo the buckles of his safety harness. Then she stood back, an odd expression on her face, as he tried to stand up.
Must look pretty weird. Kinsman thought as the suit unfolded itself—unfolded him—and he got to his feet.
Landau moved behind him and started up the heart pump. Kinsman had expected to feel it throbbing in his chest, but he felt only a slightly warm sensation that quickly passed. For several minutes the Russian tinkered with the equipment on Kinsman's backpack as Harriman watched in moody silence.
"How does it feel?" he asked at last, his voice deep and grave and somehow irritating.
"Fine," Kinsman snapped. "Same as it did on Level One at Alpha when we tested it. I'll challenge you to a basketball game before we go home."
Harriman snorted, "Bragging already! Come on. If you're so good, move your ass off this tin can and let the people admire us."
But there were no people.
At least, no crowds. Kinsman and his two followers walked from the ship into an access tunnel that led into the terminal building. A small knot of officials and medical people were there, including a representative from the Amer- ican State Department and several UN functionaries. One of them, Kinsman noted immediately, was a tall, striking blonde. Swedish, I'll bet.
No news reporters. No television cameras. No curious onlookers. All the other gates in this wing of the terminal building had been shut tight. The entire area had been cleared of people. As far down the corridor as Kinsman could see there was no one except a row of uniformed security guards spaced every twenty meters or so, wearing hard hats, with gas masks on their belts next to their riot guns and grenade pouches. Even the newsstands and gift shops were closed.
