9
SPACEPORT AMERICA,
NEW MEXICO
The governor of New Mexico was perspiring. Thrasher could see sweat beading his broad forehead and upper lip. He was a stocky Hispanic, built like a sack of cement. Even in his light gray summerweight suit, he was obviously uncomfortable. But as long as the TV news cameras were on him, the governor beamed a big telegenic smile while he stood beside Thrasher and his other guest at the VIP stands overlooking the rocket launch pad.
It was a bright desert afternoon, with the Sun blazing in a cloudless sky of turquoise blue. Hot. Dry, baking oven hot. Thrasher could feel trickles of perspiration sliding down his own ribs, beneath his short-sleeved shirt.
The viewing stands were more than half empty, despite the governor’s presence. Launching rockets from the New Mexico desert had become almost commonplace.
“Five minutes and counting,” boomed the loudspeakers on either end of the benches.
The camera crew started to shift their attention to the tall, slim rocket standing on the pad, but the TV reporter—a determined-looking young woman with perfectly-coiffed auburn hair and the buxom figure of a temptress—stayed with the governor and his two guests.
The other guest was Elton Schroeder. It was his rocket standing on the launch pad, a thin wisp of vapor leaking from halfway up its length. The vapor dissipated in the dry New Mexico air almost immediately. A slim gantry tower stood next to the rocket, holding hoses that connected to the rocket’s base and upper stage. Thrasher could see a handful of technicians in white coveralls climbing down from the launch platform and heading for a trio of SUVs parked nearby.
With his smile still in place on his beefy face, the governor began to lecture Thrasher, “It’s a two-stage rocket, you know. The first stage is jettisoned as soon as its rocket engines run out of fuel. Parachutes bring it down to a soft landing.”
“Here at the spaceport?” Thrasher asked.
Waggling one hand, the governor replied, “Well, within the confines of the White Sands range.”
Schroeder spoke up, in a strangely harsh, rasping voice, “We retrieve the stage for reuse.”
Pointing to the bird on the launch pad, Thrasher asked, “How many times has that one been reused?”
Schroeder thought for a moment, then answered, “This is the fourth flight for that one.”
“Four minutes and counting.”
Schroeder was trying to look like a cowboy, Thrasher thought. He had the craggy, weathered face for it, but his clothes looked like Brooks Brothers, or at least L. L. Bean. He was wearing brand-new, sharply creased chinos, a monogrammed white-on-white shirt, unbuttoned leather vest and hand-tooled boots. His lean face bore two days’ stubble, yet his hair was so light he almost looked like an albino. His eyes were deeply brown, though, almost black, probing. He had hardly spoken a word since the governor introduced him to Thrasher, and he conspicuously avoided the television news crew.
Thrasher noted that Schroeder put his hands behind his back and crossed his fingers. He started to say something about it, but caught himself in time. Don’t make fun of a man’s superstitions, he told himself. He’s got forty million bucks riding on this launch, he’s entitled to a quirk or two. Hell, he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
Instead, Thrasher said to the governor, “This is a magnificent thing you’ve done here. A private spaceport.”
“It’s owned by the State of New Mexico,” the governor said, with pride in his voice.
“Plus a consortium of private investors,” Schroeder added. His strained voice was almost painful to the ears.
The governor nodded. “Virgin Galactic, SpaceX, your own company, Mr. Schroeder . . .”
“Is it a profitable operation?” Thrasher asked.
“Oh yes,” the governor replied quickly. Thrasher saw that Schroeder suddenly looked uncomfortable. If this place is making a profit, Thrasher surmised, it isn’t much. Not enough to make Schroeder happy.
The minutes ticked by. Thrasher wished they were inside the sweeping modernistic air-conditioned operations building, instead of baking out here in the sun. The buxom reporter had moved to stand next to him, close enough for him to catch a hint of her perfume. His nose twitched. Musk. The damned stuff always made him sneeze.
“I didn’t get your name,” he said to the woman. She was really quite pretty beneath her makeup, he thought. Curly auburn hair clipped short. Big baby-blue eyes. The blouse she wore showed just enough cleavage to be interesting.
“Victoria Zane,” she said, smiling at him.
Thrasher nodded and turned his attention back to the activities at the base of the rocket. The SUVs were backing away and heading for the operations building, spouting roostertails of dust behind them.
Schroeder, his hands still behind his back, rasped tightly, “They’ll be going into the automated sequence now.”
“One minute and counting,” blared the loudspeakers.
He glanced at the reporter. Her eyes were riveted on the rocket and she seemed to be holding her breath. Too bad, Thrasher thought. She breathes so fetchingly. But he forced himself to keep his face impassive. This is no time for making a pass.
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
The rocket seemed to be coming alive. Standing tall and alone against the turquoise sky, to Thrasher it seemed to quiver, to breathe, almost. The hoses from the gantry tower dropped away and the tower itself rolled back from the launch platform.
“Three . . . two . . . one…”
Christ, Thrasher thought to himself, this is like having sex! The tension building, building, and then the release. It’s like working up to an explosive orgasm.
Flame blossomed at the base of the rocket and it shuddered, then began to rise, slowly, ponderously, as if in no hurry to leave the ground.
The sound came crashing in on them, an overpowering bellowing roar that rattled the bones and sucked the breath out of Thrasher’s lungs.
The rocket was rising faster now: up, higher, faster, climbing into the bright sky.
“Go, baby, go!” yelled the governor.
Schroeder brought his hands to his chin, his fingers no longer crossed. The reporter was breathing again, Thrasher saw. Very visibly.
The rocket dwindled into a blazing star, streaking upward. Then a flash of flame startled Thrasher.
“First stage separation,” Schroeder said.
“She’s on her way,” said the governor happily. “Another successful launch.”
“Congratulations,” said Thrasher, sticking his hand out to Schroeder.
Very seriously, Schroeder took Thrasher’s proffered hand in a firm grip. “Thanks.”
“Let’s get inside,” said the governor. “I’ve had enough New Mexico sunshine for one afternoon.”
Thrasher felt grateful.