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indicator or if the whole system was confused."
"The shuttle's radar is independent of your equipment, though, isn't it? Maybe
the pilot can corroborate your readings."
"Maybe—but if he'd seen anything wrong he'd almost certainly have
yelled. But I'll ask him. First, though, I want to get you started. Paul, will
you monitor the shuttle?"
Marinos, who had already quietly seated himself in the copilot's seat, nodded
and put on a headset.
Kyser removed her own and led Whitney to a console built snugly into the
flight desk's left rear corner.
Motioning him into the chair in front of it, she leaned over him and tapped at
the keys. "Here's the sign-on... access code... and program file." A series of
names and numbers appeared on the screen.
"Any of those look familiar?"
"Quite a few, if the programming division's keeping its nomenclature
consistent." Whitney scanned the list, experimentally keyed in a number.
"That's the standard equipment-check program," Kyser told him. "We've already
run that one and come up dry."
"No errors? Then the problem probably isn't in the computer system."
She shook her head. " 'Probably' isn't good enough. Aren't there more complete
test programs that can be run?"
"You're talking about the full-blown diagnostic monsters that ground
maintenance uses." Whitney hesitated, trying to remember what little he knew
about such programs. "It seems to me that the program should be stored
somewhere in your system, probably on one of the duplicate-copy disks. The
catch is that the thing takes up almost all of your accessible memory space,
so anything that normally uses that
space will have to be temporarily shut down while it's running."
Kyser looked over at the flight engineer. "Rick?"
"Jibes with what I've heard," he agreed. "Most of the programs that take a lot
of space are connected with navigation, radar monitoring, and mechanical
flight systems and cargo deck stuff. We're not using any of those at the
moment, anyway, so that's no problem. I can also switch a lot of the
passenger-deck functions from automatic to manual control." He craned his neck
to look at Whitney, sitting directly behind him. "Will that free up enough
memory?"
"I don't know—I don't know how much room it'll need. But there's another
problem, Captain.
Since it such a big program, there'll almost undoubtedly be safeguards to
keep someone from is accidentally loading it and losing everything else in the
memory."
"A password?"
"Of some kind." Whitney had been searching the program list and had already
checked the descriptions of two or three of the entries. Another of them
caught his eye and he keyed it in. "You may need to check with ground control
to even find the name... hold it. Never mind, I've found it. DCHECK. Let's
see...." He advanced the description another page, skimmed it. "Here it is. We
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need something called the
Sasquatch-3L package to load it."
"Will Dallas ground control have it?" Henson asked.
"I would think so—if not, they can probably get it by phone from one of
the Skyport maintenance areas." Whitney hesitated. "But it's not clear whether
or not that'll do you any good."
"Why not?"
"Well, remember that the whole reason you don't have the loading code in the
first place is that they don't want you accidentally plugging in the program
and wiping out something the autopilot's doing. So they may not legally be
able to release the code to a Skyport crew, especially one that's in flight."
"That's stupid!"
"That's bureaucratic thinking," Captain Kyser corrected—or agreed;
Whitney couldn't figure out which. Leaning over Whitney's shoulder again, she
spoke toward a small grille next to the display screen.
"Carl? Did you get all that?"
"Yes," the intercom answered, "and I suspect Mr. Whitney's basically right.
But there have to be emergency procedures for something like this—else
why have the program stored aboard in the first place? It should simply be a
matter of getting an adequately prominent official to give an okay. I'll get
the tower on it right away."
"And hope your prominent official can move his tail this early in the
morning," she muttered under her breath.
Whitney had been thinking along a separate track. "There's one other thing we
can try," he said. "Can you patch me into the regular phone system from up
here?"
"Trivially. Why?"
"I'd like to call my former supervisor back in Houston. He might be able to
get the package, either from his own office or from someone in L.A."
"You just said it was illegal to release the code," Henson objected.
"To you, yes; but maybe not to me. I
work for the company, after all."
Henson started to growl something vituperative, but Kyser cut him off. "We'll
complain to the FAA later.
For now, let's take whatever loopholes we can get our hands on. Put on that
half-headset, Mr. Whitney, and I'll fix you up with Ma Bell."
The call, once the connection was finally made, was a remarkably short one.
Dr. Mills, seldom at his best in the early morning, nevertheless came fully
awake as Whitney gave him a thumbnail sketch of the crisis.
He took down the names of both the diagnostic program and the loading code,
extracted from Captain
Kyser—via Whitney—the instructions for placing a return call to
the Skyport, and promised to have the package for him in fifteen minutes.
"Well, that's it, I guess," Whitney remarked after signing off. "Nothing to do
now but wait."
"Yeah. Damn."
Whitney looked up at her as she stared through the computer console,
concentration drawing her eyebrows together. She had been something of a
surprise to him, and he still found it hard to believe a
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