V.
Nothing but Comet Dust
The operation room of Infinite Space Independent Agency was a buzzing beehive, and it had reached its holding capacity; the whole world wanted to squeeze into that hall, seemingly spacious on any regular day.
Professor Greg Wiggerman, the flight director, looked up to the gallery where all the members of the colonial press fought for better places. There were only forty minutes left until the big events. The tension was tangible in the room, but also in his muscles—he was cramping from head to toe. Maybe if they moved on to the second phase, if they could just pass the approach successfully, if . . . he played out the scene in his mind. Even the cigarettes couldn’t help; he’d smoked more than a pack in the past two hours.
“We’ll change orbit twice in the next
