Days later there was an even greater gulf of silence. Halfway to Earth, Greg could've just as well been halfway to eternity. It meant nothing to the mind. A human can't comprehend the vastness of space. Even a short trip from the Moon was incomprehensible to the naked eye.

Sitting in the SpaceChopper, Greg felt motionless. It was like watching mountains on a highway, blacktop fading to the vanishing point. You could rev the engine all you liked, but everything seemed suspended in space. But, in the chopper, he really was.

He was starting to feel a distinct paranoia in his isolation. The voices in his head were reassuringly calm, steady reminders of his connection to the worlds. When the voices went silent, the void encroached.

The small drone camera floated by. Its little jets spun it around in a slow pan from the chopper around to Earth. Greg saluted the little robot, "Wish I had your boosters, chap. Speed up this ride and really scorch the atmosphere."

Mission Command chirped over the radio, "Ghost, be advised, looks like some lively tectonic action is taking place on Terra, seems to be something volcanic. Over."

Greg craned backward to look for the planet, as if he would be able to see anything, "Roger that Orchard, where's this funky stuff happening at, over?"

There was a long break of silence, but Command finally answered, "Yucatan peninsula, Gulf of Mexico. Houston may lose communications due to their proximity. Over."

"Whoa buddy," said Greg, "That's a pretty strange place for a mountain to be popping up. Well, I'm not going anywhere, so I suppose I'll see them when I land." The news made him uneasy, but there was nothing he could do except float on.

"Alright, we'll be keeping in touch and assuming full operational control from here." The moonbase operator sounded a little distracted, hurrying on, "Orchard out."

Greg stared into the speckled void around him, worried and feeling helpless.

###

An erratic cacophony of noise and static woke Greg from a fitful doze. Pulsing sounds of shuddering bass and high-pitched blips mixed with a wavering white noise. It poured from the craft's electronics.

He keyed his mic, "Orchard, you hearing this?" Mumbling, he added, "Over."

Command came through, faint compared to the vastness of the noise, "Affirmative Ghost, the signal is wide-range interference pouring out of Terra's atmosphere, over."

"Jee-sus," spat Greg, "Can't you do something about that? Cancel it out or something? What's Houston saying it is? Anything? Over."

The reply came back slow, voice reluctant, "Houston has gone dark. We can't cancel out a broadcast that strong. Advise you turn the systems down until issue resolves. Over."

Greg looked upward, peered at the planet he was falling toward. It was larger, closer, looming. Earth had a blemish, a long tail of volcanic ash pouring from the Gulf of Mexico.

In a daze, he eventually remembered to respond, "Wilco, I guess I'll hope for the best. Ghost, out."

He pushed his head back as far as it would go. The thick padding of his helmet made it tough, but he had to watch. From such great heights, the planet looked positively serene. Even the cloud of ash was just another kind of beauty.

Outside, the little drone was doing a lap around the SpaceChopper. It paid no heed to the volcano. It's AI was probably only programmed to move about and prevent collisions. It made it seem callous and uncaring to the drama of Earth.

###

The timekeepers on board kept track of mission duration, checkpoint countdowns, and time since last radio contact. The contact counter was now at a full day with change. Mission Command had been unresponsive, each attempt met with the chaotic static.

Still, Greg tried again. "Orchard, this is Ghost. Do you read, over?"

Nothing. The pulsing sounds continued their electric dance across the airwaves.

He sighed, watching Earth with a yearning resignation. There were more plumes of ash now, and the clouds were increasingly a dusky orange. The world looked like it harbored some vast wildfire. Lightning crawled across the dark cloud cover in flickering tongues of light.

His orbit had begun changing, falling at a steeper angle. Earth's pull was playing its part in the plan. Now the continents stretched out in front of him. He had a front row seat for his crash landing.

But, that had always been the plan. Greg was just about to get to the good part: reentry. Hit the atmosphere just right and trail fire as a living-breathing meteor: as long as he didn't spin to death, as long as he didn't burn for too long, as long as a million tiny things went perfectly. Then the chutes would float him to rest.

A voice whispered through the static, "Ghost, is that you? Ghost, this is Silver Station, do you read?"

The marvel of human contact made Greg jump inside his skin. He fumbled with his glove, tapped the transmitter's contact, "Silver Station! I read you, read you like the happiest man alive! How's that ol' space heap doing?" He turned up his radio, ignoring the static.

"Ghost it's damned good to hear your voice. We've been cut off from everyone for days. Terra's magnetosphere is going crazy!" It was the International Space Station, a legend in its own right. It'd been expanded to a hundred times its original size, but some of those parts were antiques.

Greg felt tears on his cheeks, "Aww, blast. I love hearing from you guys, but damned if I wasn't hoping that only my radio was malfunctioning."

The station's caller sounded bleak after that, "Yeah, sorry, but it's the truth. Orchard is too far to break through the interference. Houston is probably evacuated, but no one on Earth is responding. Nothing electromagnetic is coming out or getting in.

"Well damn." Greg soaked in the news with silent brooding. He watched his drone companion do another flyby, the same pattern it'd repeated a hundred times. He thought of the Titanic's orchestra.

"Ghost, how is your ship doing? Everything still reading green?" Warbles of noise started picking up, the station was getting harder to hear.

The question brought him back, and he glanced over his readouts, "Green as gravy." He paused, setting his jaw, "So, think I can hitch a ride with one of you guys?"

His question was answered in the pause, or maybe he'd already figured it out unconsciously. Space flight was still expensive, rockets still rare.

The station spoke slowly, "We sent our last tug to the moon two days ago. The other went back planetside after the first anomaly showed up."

Greg peered into nothingness, "Yeah, I didn't figure I would have to ask if it was available. Anything you want me to bring back after I touchdown?"

"Just let us know what's going on down there. That would be enough." The voice was more distant, the static more chaotic.

"Anyway, it was nice hearing from you guys." Greg arched his head back, tried to find a speck that might be the station. It was no good, the planet was practically kissing him. He kept talking, "I enjoyed the visit too, you folks have some nice digs."

"It was an honor," said the voice, almost incomprehensible. Several people talked at once after that, a jumble of well-wishes and hopeful words. Most was lost to the static.

Greg stared ahead. The drone was beginning to burn. Reentry had begun.

###

Total mission success. The entire operation had gone perfect. From his jump off the moon until splashdown, each checkpoint had a bold green checkmark to denote its success.

The Flying Ghost had made another successful landing.

The ocean rolled him back and forth, tossed him like a man being lifted by a crowd. Earth was congratulating him, welcoming him home.

Yet the sky burned red.

After hitting the water, the SpaceChopper had clipped the chutes and deployed a buoyancy raft. Now it floated easily atop an oversized bag of tough yellow. Greg was still safely tucked into the craft without a scratch. He sipped on the same meal supplement he'd used in space. There was no immediate danger to him or the craft.

Yet the recovery ship had not come.

Eventually he would hit land, probably before running out of supplies. Until then, the best option was to stay put. After all, maybe the rescue crew would still come. It'd only been a week since landing. Sighing, Greg turned the vents back off. It would've been so wonderful to get a breath of fresh air.

The sky stank of sulfur.