Dan Simmons - Phases of Gravity

Dave had used his experience to solve Hughes's problem with the TH-55As, but he had been passed over for promotion as a result of his unauthorized flying with the 1st Cav. He also received notes from both the Air Force and Army informing him that under no circumstances could he put in for retroactive combat flight pay. Dave had laughed. He had been notified two weeks before leaving Vietnam that he had been accepted into NASA's training program for post -Gemini astronauts.

'Not bad,' said Baedecker as they finished the external checks and moved into the cockpit. 'Got your own slick for weekend jaunts. One of the perks of being a congressman, Dave?' Muldorff laughed and tossed Baedecker a clipboard with the cockpit checklist. 'Sure,' he said. 'Goldwater used to get his free rides in F-18s. I've got my Huey. Of course, it helps that I'm still on active reserve out here.' He handed Baedecker a baseball cap with the insignia AIR FORCE 1_ sewn on it. Baedecker tugged it on and set the radio headset in place. 'Also, Richard,' continued Dave, 'it might reassure you to know — as a concerned taxpayer — that this particular pile of rusted bolts did its duty in ‘Nam, ferried around weekend warriors out here for ten years, and is now officially on the spare-parts list. Chico and the boys keep it around in case anybody has to run up to Portland to buy cigarettes or something.'

'Yeah,' said Baedecker. 'Great.' He strapped himself into the left seat as Dave waggled the cyclic control stick and reached down with his left hand to squeeze the starter trigger on the collective pitch control lever. It had been the constant interplay of controls — cyclic, collective, rudder pedals, and throttle thrust grip — that had given Baedecker fits when he had been forced to fly the perverse machines twenty years earlier. Compared to a military helicopter, the Apollo lunar module had been a simple machine to master.

The gas-turbine engine roared, the high-speed starter motor whined, and the two forty-eight-foot rotor blades began to turn. 'Yowzuh!' called Dave over the intercom. Various dials registered their appropriate readings while the whop-whop-whop of the main rotors reached a point of almost physical pressure. Dave pulled up on the collective control and three tons of well-aged machinery lifted off its skids to hover five feet above the tarmac.

'Ready to see my shortcut?' Dave's voice was flat and metallic over the intercom.

'Show me,' said Baedecker.

Dave grinned, spoke quickly into his mike, and confidently pitched the ship forward as they began their climb into the east.

San Francisco was rainy and cold for the two days Baedecker and Maggie Brown were there. At Maggie's suggestion, they stayed in a renovated old hotel near Union Square. The halls were dimly lit and smelled of paint, the showers were jerry-rigged onto massive bathtubs with claw feet, and everywhere hung the exposed pipes of the building's sprinkler system. Baedecker and Maggie took turns showering to remove the grime of their forty-eight-hour train trip, lay down to take a nap, made love instead, showered again, and went out into the evening.

'I've never been here before,' said Maggie with a wide grin. 'It's marvelous!' The streets were busy with rushing theater-goers and couples — mostly male — walking hand in hand under neon signs promising topless and bottomless delights. The wind smelled of the sea and exhaust fumes. The cable-car system was down for repairs, and all of the cabs in sight were either filled or beyond hailing distance. Baedecker and Maggie took a bus to Fisherman's Wharf where they walked without speaking until a cold drizzle and Baedecker's injured ankle forced them into a restaurant.

'The prices are high,' said Maggie when the main course had been served, 'but the scallops are delicious.'

'Yes,' said Baedecker.

'All right, Richard,' said Maggie and touched his hand. 'What's wrong?' Baedecker shook his head. 'Nothing.' Maggie waited.

'I was just wondering how you were going to make up this week's worth of classes,' he said and poured more wine for both of them.

'Not true,' said Maggie. In the candlelight her green eyes seemed almost turquoise. Her cheeks were sunburned even under their tan. 'Tell me.' Baedecker looked at her a long moment. 'I've been thinking about when Tom Gavin's son pulled that stupid stunt in the mountains,' he said.

Maggie smiled. 'You mean dancing naked on a rock during a lightning storm? With a tent pole in one hand? That stupid stunt?' Baedecker nodded. 'He could have been killed.'

'This is true,' agreed Maggie. 'Especially since he seemed intent upon taking the names of all the gods in vain until he pissed off the wrong one.' She seemed to notice Baedecker's intensity and her voice changed. 'Hey, it turned out all right. Why are you letting it bother you now?'

'It's not what he did that bothers me,' said Baedecker. 'It's what I did while he was up on that boulder.'

'You didn't do anything,' said Maggie.

'Exactly,' said Baedecker and finished his glass of wine. He poured more. 'I did nothing.'

'Tommy's father got him down before either one of us could react,' said Maggie.

Baedecker nodded. At a nearby table several women laughed loudly at an unheard joke.

'Oh, I see,' said Maggie. 'We're talking about Scott again.'

Baedecker wiped his hands on a red linen napkin. 'I'm not sure,' he said. 'But at least Tom Gavin saw his son doing something stupid and saved him from possible disaster.'

'Yes,' said Maggie, 'and little Tommy was . . . what . . .? seventeen, and Scott will be twenty-three in March.'

'Yes, but . . .'

'And little Tommy was ten feet away,' said Maggie. 'Scott is in Poona. India.'

'I know that . . .'

'Besides, who are you to say what Scott's doing there is disaster? You've had your chance, Richard. Scott's a big boy now, and if he wants to spend a few years chanting mantras and giving away his lunch money to some bearded horse's ass with a Jehovah Complex, well, you've had your chance to help him, so what do you say you just get on with your screwed-up life, Richard E. Baedecker.' Maggie took a long drink of wine. 'Oh, shit, sometimes, Richard, you give me such a . . .' She stopped and began to hiccup violently.

Baedecker gave her his ice water and waited. She sat silently for a second, opened her mouth to speak, and hiccuped again. Both of them laughed. The group of ladies at a nearby table looked over at them disapprovingly.

The next day in Golden Gate Park as they peered out from under their newly purchased umbrella at orange metal columns appearing and disappearing in the low clouds, Maggie said, 'You're going to have to work out this thing about Scott before we get on with our own feelings, aren't you, Richard?'

'I'm not sure,' said Baedecker. 'Let's just let it rest for a few days, all right? We'll talk about it later in the week.' Maggie brushed a raindrop from her nose. 'Richard,' she said, 'I love you.' It was the first time she had said that.

In the morning, when Baedecker awoke to bright sunlight sifting through the hotel curtains and to the sound of traffic and pedestrian bustle from the street below, Maggie was gone.

They flew east and then north and then east again, gaining altitude even as the forested land rose under them. When the altimeter read 8,500 feet, Baedecker said, 'Don't Air National Guard regs call for oxygen somewhere around here?'

'Yup,' said Dave. 'In case of sudden loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will fall from the overhead compartments and hit you on the head. Please place them over your snout and breathe normally. If you are traveling with a child or infant on your lap, quickly decide which of you has the right to breathe.'

'Thanks,' said Baedecker. 'Mt. Hood?' They had been approaching the volcanic peak for some time. Now it loomed tall to the left of their flight path, the snow-crested summit still two thousand feet higher than their own altitude. The shadow of the Huey rippled across the carpet of trees below and ahead of them.