Dan Simmons - Phases of Gravity

'I suppose you could look at the shuttle orbiter as a bigger, better Dyna Soar,' said Baedecker and even as he said it, he saw the word in his mind as 'dinosaur.' He had flown powerless lifting bodies at Edwards in the mid-sixties as part of NASA's contribution to the defunct Air Force program.

'Sure,' said Hagen, 'and Spacelab's sort of an updated, international version of the MOL . . . a couple of decades late. And Spacelab itself has become a sort of a test project for the space station components we'll start ferrying up in a couple of years.'

'You're not carrying Spacelab on this mission though, are you?' asked Scott.

There was a silence in which several men shook their heads. The DoD payload was out-of-bounds for this conversation, and Scott knew it.

'Is weather still a worry?' asked Baedecker. Thunderstorms across the Gulf had been building up by midmorning for days.

'Little bit,' said Tucker. 'Last word from meteorology was go, but they didn't sound too sincere. What the hell. The windows are brief, but we've got them for three days in a row. You two going to be in the VIP stands tomorrow, Dick?'

'Wouldn't miss it,' said Baedecker.

'What do you think of all this, Scott?' asked Hagen. The Air Force colonel was looking at the redhead with friendly interest.

Scott started to shrug and stopped himself. He glanced at his father and then looked right at Hagen. 'To be honest, sir, I find it very interesting and a little sad.'

'Sad?' It was Miller, one of the mission specialists, a dark, intense man who reminded Baedecker a bit of Gus Grissom. 'Why sad?' Scott opened the fingers of his left hand and took a breath. 'You're not broadcasting the launch tomorrow, right? Not allowing reporters on the Cape? Not announcing any part of the mission progress except the absolute minimum. Not even telling the public when exactly the launch is going to take place, right?'

'That's correct,' said Captain Conners. There was the clipped quality of the Air Force Academy in his voice. 'That seems the least we can do for national security in what has to be a classified mission.' Conners glanced at the others as a waiter picked up the pie plates and refilled coffee cups. Holmquist and Tucker were smiling as they looked at Scott. The others were just looking.

Scott did shrug, but he grinned before he spoke and Baedecker felt that some of the fierce, unrelenting intensity that he had felt emanating from his son for years had lessened somewhat in recent weeks. 'I understand that,' said Scott, 'but I remember the days when Dad flew when the press knew about it every time a crew member farted . . . excuse me, but that's what it was like. For the families, too. At least during the missions. What I'm trying to say is I just remember how open it was and how we kept comparing that to the secrecy of the Russians' program. We were proud to let it all hang out for everybody to see. Now, I guess, it makes me a little sad that we're getting to be more like the Soviets.' Miller opened his mouth to speak, but Holmquist's laugh cut him off. ' Too true,' said Holmquist. 'But I tell you, my man, we've got a long way to go before we're like the Russians. Did you see the reporters down at Melbourne Airport taking notes as all the defense contractors' baggage came in? That's all they needed to let them know what kind of payload's flying. Have you seen the Washington Post or New York Times today?' Scott shook his head.

The young payload specialist went on to describe the articles appearing in press and TV, never confirming or denying their veracity but elaborating in humorous detail the frustrated efforts of Air Force press officers to stick their fingers in a dike that had become a sieve. One of the NASA administrators told a story about the press boats that were being chased from the area when all the while Soviet intelligence-gathering ships were deployed just beyond the restricted zone.

Fred Hagen offered a tale about his X-15 days when an enterprising reporter disguised himself as a visiting Brazilian Air Force officer to get an exclusive. Baedecker told about his trip to the Soviet Union prior to the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project and how, late one wintry night, Dave Muldorff had walked up to a lampshade in their living quarters in Star City and suggested loudly that a nightcap sure would hit the spot, but they were all out of the complimentary booze their hosts had provided. Ten minutes later a Russian orderly had shown up with bottles of vodka, Scotch, and champagne.

There was more laughter as the dinner group broke up into small conversations and several of the administrators took their leave. Holmquist and Tucker were talking to Scott when Don Gilroth walked around the table and put his hand on Baedecker's shoulder. 'Dick, could we take a minute? Outside here?' Baedecker followed the other man into the empty waiting room. Gilroth closed the door and hitched his belt up over his ample stomach. 'Dick, I didn't know if we'd get a chance to talk tomorrow, so I thought I'd get to you tonight.'

'Talk about what?' said Baedecker.

'About coming back to work for NASA,' said the administrator. Baedecker blinked in surprise. The idea had never occurred to him. 'I talked to Cole Prescott and Weitzel and some of the others, and I hear you're considering some other things, but I wanted you to know that NASA's interested too,' said Gilroth. 'I know we'll never be competitive with private industry, but these are exciting times around here. We're trying to rebuild the whole program.'

'Don,' said Baedecker, 'I'll be fifty-four years old before long.'

'Yeah, and I'll be fifty-nine in August,' said Gilroth. 'Don't know if you've noticed, Dick, but the shop isn't being run by teenagers these days.' Baedecker shook his head. 'I've been out of touch for too many years . . .' Gilroth shrugged. 'We're not talking about going back onto active flight status, you know,' he said. 'Though God knows with all the work comin' up in the next couple of years, anything's possible. But Harry could sure use someone with the experience over in the Astronaut Office. Between the leftovers and the trainees, we've got close to seventy astros running around here. Not like the old days when Deke and Al had to keep an eye on just a dozen or so of you hell-raisers.'

'Don,' said Baedecker, 'I've just begun work on a book that Dave Muldorff didn't have time to finish and . . .'

'Yep, know all about that,' said Gilroth and tapped Baedecker on the upper arm. 'There's no rush on this, Dick. Think it over. Get back to me anytime this year. Oh . . . and Dick . . . Dave Muldorff must've thought it was a good idea, you're coming back. I got a letter from him last November where he mentioned it. Sort of confirmed my own thinking about trying to get some of the old pros back.' Baedecker was digesting this when Tucker and Scott came through the door.

'There you are,' said Tucker. 'We were planning to take a little ride up to the pad. Want to come along?'

'Yes,' said Baedecker. He turned to the departing Gilroth. 'Don, thanks for the idea. I'll get back to you.'

'Good enough,' said the administrator and gave the three of them a two-fingered salute.

Tucker drove them in a green NASA-owned Plymouth for the eight miles up the four-laned Kennedy Parkway to Pad 39-A. The VAB, illuminated from above and below by floodlights, loomed impossibly large as they approached. Baedecker looked up at an American flag painted on one corner of the south face and realized that the flag alone was big enough to play a football game on. Beyond the assembly building, the space vehicle became visible, enclosed in a protective web of gantries. Searchlights cut beams through the humid air, lights glowed throughout the latticework of pipes and girders, and Baedecker thought that the whole thing looked like a gigantic oil derrick filling some interplanetary supertanker.