General Stuart stared at a coffee mug ring on his otherwise polished oak conference table without really noticing it. "Armstrong Station can survive," Saint-Michael said. "We don't have to burn thirty billion dollars worth of hardware up in the atmosphere. If the Russians decide to go all out, Silver Tower's SBR could be critical."
Stuart finally looked up. "All right, Jason, I'll take your recommendation to the Joint Chiefs tonight and ask that it be presented to the president tomorrow. That'll leave him three days to make his decision."
"Thank you, sir." Saint-Michael knew he couldn't count on Stuart to state his case as strongly as he would want. He just hoped the president would see the logic of reactivating the station. Well, one thing was sure: If the plan was approved, he was going to be part of it. Better start pitching now… General, if we get the green light I want to pilot America."
Stuart immediately shook his head. "No way, Jason. You're grounded. Hampton is still the pilot, no matter what the man decides."
"Sir, you don't have any choice on this one. If the plan is authorized you'll need a station commander on Armstrong — someone who's checked out on SBR and all of the station's subsystems. Hampton's the best HTS jockey we have, but he's not a station commander."
"Jason," — Stuart's patience was wearing thin — "all we need is someone to keep things together until the station gets oriented—"
"That someone would have to take the first officer's place aboard America, leaving Hampton with the job of putting the HTS into orbit by himself. He's good, but he's not that good."
"If it came to that, Jason, I'm sure we could rig up a makeshift seat for the extra crewmember. I'm still not convinced you're essential."
"Sir, nobody knows that station better than I do,"
"What about your dysbarism, sir?" Horvath asked, fearing he might lose his chance at his first real ride in the hypersonic spaceplane America. "What if your episodes recur in space?"
"America is a spacesuit-environment craft. As long as I prebreathe oxygen and stay in a spacesuit I'll be just fine."
"Jason, you don't know that," Dr. Matsui said from behind him. Saint-Michael didn't bother turning around. "The lower pressure in the suit could trigger a seizure. The excitement, the adrenaline — even the noise could set you off. And if there was an emergency-rapid decompression, a suit puncture—"
"Then we're out both an HTS pilot and a station commander," Stuart finished for him, "and we bring you back in America's cargo hold, along with all your crew."
That last hit Saint-Michael hard. His crew. Would he be endangering them by heading up the mission? It was one thing to take chances with his own life, but with the lives of the crew… He scanned the faces of the others in the room. What he saw renewed his determination.
"Look, General," Saint-Michael said, "there's no denying me risking my life by going up there. We all will. It goes, as they say, with the territory. But I think the chances are better than even we'll put that station back in business. Right now, all things considered, 'better than even' seems like pretty good odds."
Stuart said nothing for a long moment. Then: "Like I said, Jas, I'll take your proposal to the Pentagon. I'll tell them you want in — let them decide."
Good old Martin Stuart, Saint-Michael thought. Always an expert at passing the buck. Well, nothing to do now but wait… and hope. His thoughts drifted… then fixed on an image of Jim Walker stepping into the lifeboat. That look on his face. What was it? A parting look… a final farewell…?
Saint-Michael's own face hardened as he stood in the Space Command conference room. Somehow, some way, he had to get back on board that station.
The Chevy Blazer turned off the main highway, down a graded dirt road with a large sign that read "Calhan Municipal Airport Welcomes You."
Ann looked at Saint-Michael. "An airport? You live on an airport?"
"I get that reaction all the time. I guess I'm one of the few people who've gotten the chance to fulfill a childhood fantasy. When I was a kid, I used to wash airplanes, pump gas and sweep out hangars to pay for flying lessons. I got my pilot's license before I got a driver's license. I was always at the airport. Years later, when I was reassigned to Colorado Springs, I began hunting around for a place and ran across this abandoned county airport. Thirty acres, a hangar, fuel storage, a house, a terminal building and a paved runway. Plus I've got fresh air — sweetened once in a while from the stockyards up the road — the open sky, and the Rocky Mountains. And all it cost me was the back taxes. Paradise."
They pulled up in front of an old but imposing ranch-style house surrounded by trees several hundred yards from the terminal building. Ann was surprised to see a beacon light revolving on a tower near the terminal. "The airport's active now," he explained. "Another deal I made with the county."
"Doesn't the noise ever bother you? It would drive me crazy."
"It's not that active. Besides, I'm hardly ever here."
"You have your own plane?"
"Yes, A beauty." They got out of the car and made their way through the darkness to the house. "Of course, if the docs at Space Command don't give me a clean bill of health I'll have trouble flying even my Piper Malibu."
He punched a code into a keyless door lock and swung the door open. To her surprise, lights immediately went on in the foyer and front two rooms. "I'm also into gadgets," he said. "If houses can be described as 'high tech,' then this one is." He helped her take off her coat and hung it in the front closet just off the white tiled foyer.
"It's warm in here," Ann said. "You keep the heat on all the time when you're gone?"
"Another gadget. Before I leave headquarters I call home. When the computer answers, I punch a code into the phone that tells the computer to turn on the heat or air-conditioning, outside lights, everything — it even makes a pot of coffee.
Ann smiled back, pleased to be seeing a new side of him. He led her into the great room, an oak-paneled palace dominated by a cathedral ceiling and a massive stone fireplace. She sat on a leather sofa in front of the fireplace, and he poured a snifter of Grand Marnier for both of them. When he returned with the liqueur he was pleased to see her curled up against one of the big arm pillows.
"You look right at home," he said. She smiled, accepted the snifter.
He went to the fireplace and within a few minutes had a roaring fire built, then returned to the sofa and sat beside her, watching the logs being consumed by the blaze. After a while she moved toward him — Ann Page was neither coy nor a tease — and put her head on his shoulder. He reached over and brushed her hair from her forehead. "It's peaceful here," she said. She looked up at him, watched the reflections of fire in his eyes. "What do you think they'll say? I mean, about reactivating the station? About your going along?"
"I'm counting on a yea to both points."
"But what if—"
"I can't think about that now," he said. "I think my desire to get back to the station, the feeling I've got to and will, is what's helped me fight off this damn sickness. And you've been an important part of it. I hope you realize that."
"Jason."
He would have been a fool or worse not to understahd that the time was now. He kissed her. She pressed against him, holding the kiss for as long as possible. When they parted, they looked into each other's eyes, reading thoughts and desire — thee same for them both. "Make love to me, Jason. Now."
And General Saint-Michael, for once in his life, did precisely as he was told. Afterward they shared the unspoken feeling that their loving time together was unlikely to be repeated soon. The dark void of space lay ahead, a place with no promises, and a future unknown.