David Palmer - Emergence

Performed abbreviated kata to loosen up musculature, hone reflexes; followed by scant breakfast of C-rations.

Then was time. Removed tiedowns; coiled, stowed line; resecured emergency kit behind seat.

Inserted earplugs; pulled on helmet. Started engine, settled in seat, fastened harness.

Checked all controls; performed two-minute full-power test; during which relaxed; expanded consciousness, alertness. Combat computer assumed control.

Released brakes. Only peripherally aware of wheels’ pounding over rough bark as ship accelerated.

Lifted nosewheel before 50-foot mark; popped 50 percent flaperons as airspeed hit 22 knots. Total takeoff roll less than 75 feet. Zeroed in on first pair of sequoias framing entrance to in/out plunge through forest. Pegged airspeed at 30 knots for best angle-of-climb; watched trunks loom large ahead, pass on either side — then into woods proper, concentrating on remaining centered in premarked corridor.

But no surprises, no stark maneuvering (trees hadn’t moved since yesterday). Pylon dodge’em game without drama this time; plenty of room all the way in, around, back. Emerged from forest already halfway to lowest branches.

Flying level, almost within reach of greenery, by glade’s far end. Performed steeply banked 180; leveled, headed for opening, building speed.

Going almost 60 when yanked back stick, shot up through small opening into chimney. Immediately lowered nose, stabilized airspeed at 35 knots (best rate-of-climb speed also); rolled into endless climbing turn.

Breathed huge sigh of relief as emerged from shaft above treetops — then inexplicably giggled again, wishing Terry were here. Would have enjoyed ride so much, even if less exciting than yesterday. Could almost see twin now, bobbing head, wings half-spread, wearing expression of utter delight. Missed him dreadfully.

Missed Adam, too. And Kim, Lisa. Tora-chan, too.

Missed family.

Climbed toward cruising altitude. Reached for helmet radio switch, intending to try to raise them once above intervening peaks — only to discover already on; batteries stone dead, apparently left on yesterday.

Oh, well. Irritation, not problem.

(But major irritation…)

Settled down on return course. Resisted urge to push throttle to max. Unsure of fuel situation, but knew was tight. Gritted teeth, cut back to efficient minimum cruise.

No sweat; arrived at departure point with fuel to spare — but nobody there…

Landed, looked around for note, clue to whereabouts. Found nothing — fine quandary!

Indulged in moment’s self-pity; then thought matter through: Put self in Adam’s, Kim’s shoes. Of course: Gone to look for me — exactly what would have done were positions reversed.

Well, easily enough solved: Obtain fresh radio batteries, return to area where forced down, fly around until family notices, switches on own radio (surely will; exhaust note probably audible for five-mile radius). Once in contact, arrange location to meet.

Okay, problem solved.

Restarted again, lifted back into air, flying slowly, low. Looked for, found gas station. Buzzed, inspected; apparently in good shape. Landed in street, taxied up apron. Access to station no problem; standing wide open. Rummaged briefly; found hose, pump, couple cans of two-stroke oil. Mixed up formula, refueled.

Located electronics store next. Managed to find carton of appropriate 9-volt radio dry cells, plus tester with which to determine condition. Replaced helmet batteries with best of lot; stuffed extras in pockets.

Stepped outside just in time to feel ground tremble, hear concussion. Looked up, motivated by ancient habit; noted barely visible, fast-moving contrail splitting sky, heading south-southwest. Continued toward ultralight without breaking stride. Donned helmet and…

Contrail?

CONTRAIL…!

Went briefly out of control then, Posterity. Must have. How else to explain certified genius running back, forth in street; dancing up, down; waving, screaming — at aircraft five miles up…

Hysteria ended abruptly as begun: Winds aloft shredding vapor; evidence rapidly dissipating.

Moved quickly; probably set record for ultralight engine start, takeoff, climb-out. Aligned own craft with contrail as cleared ground. Maintained course, watching compass, as continued maximum climb. Needed sufficient altitude to ensure local magnetic anomalies (ferrous accumulations, etc.) not affecting reading.

Five minutes, 3,000 feet later, contrail’s last fleecy wisp lost in distance, heading unchanged.

Leaving Junior Birdwoman again dangling skewered on dilemma’s needle-pointed horns:

Pacific 150-200 miles ahead on present course, according to memory. Unless headed overseas, jet’s destination lay somewhere within three and half hours’ flying time at ultralight’s peak cruise.

But following up would cost at least eight hours’ round trip; add full day to separation from family — cruel to leave Adam, Kim, et al., in doubt, combing sequoia forest, searching for own tattered remains.

On other hand, at least day’s work involved in locating, rejoining them. Even if landed somewhere ahead, jet could be on other side of globe before found family, returned.

(Leadership sure is lonely business sometimes!)

But some decisions easier than others, though not necessarily pleasant: Had to chase jet while trail still warm. Simply no alternative.

So ignored anguished little voice worrying about family; concentrated on course, terrain ahead. For next three and half hours.

Embarrassing, really, how completely by surprise otherwise well-informed person can be taken. Despite own keen interest in things scientific, substantial knowledge of geography, never suspected jet’s destination until loomed out of distance, so huge, size alone misled perspective.

Not until very close did recognition set in. First experienced pang of disappointment as perceived coastline; feared had missed landing site, or perhaps jet continued out over water.

Only after blunt-nosed, moth-shaped silver barnacle — adhering halfway up huge, sharply dome-topped, dark beige tower rearing amidst cluster of even larger structures — caught eye, held it, did I recognize Vandenberg Space Shuttle Launch Complex.

But technical wonders held attention only briefly: Moments later, could discern moving vehicles scurrying about shuttle’s base…

And people…

People everywhere — lots of people …!

Don’t know how managed to land in one piece. Certainly in no condition to fly by then: senses reeling, heart racing, breath coming in sobs, half blinded by tears. Only know that presently ultralight bumped to stop in shadow of monster spaceship.

People converged; helped me off with harness, helmet; pulled me to feet.

Strangers all, but reminded me somehow of Daddy during first moments. Men, women both; mostly young; kindly features, concerned expressions; vital, handsome people.

Hardly anyone uttered intelligible word at first. But no need: Even with everyone laughing, crying, passing me from hug to hug like stuffed toy — never doubted for instant!

Had found AAs…!

Managed, finally, to blubber name in response to inquiry from gentle young Adonis in charge. Reply caused odd metamorphosis to pass across features; stir ripple through crowd.

But recovered quickly. Smiled, said: “Then here’s someone you’ll be happy to see again.”

Felt pair of hands take me by shoulders from behind. Was turned around.

Then looked up — not very far up — into well-remembered, wizened, elflike features. Inexpressible love, joy beamed from dark, slanted, gently mischievous eyes as, streaming tears himself, Teacher said: “Candidia, my child, the sight of you makes an old man…”