practical.â
Roos leaned forward. âMore practical than you think. Spaceports are already being built. Last count, there were eighteen such efforts underway, including those in New Mexico, Alabama, Washington, Russia, Singapore, Tasmania, Australia, and Canada. Space tourism is almost here. I need someone like you to make sure we lead the pack.â
âSo I just up and quit. Do you realize what youâre asking?â
âI do and I can make it worth your while. If you agree, youâll sit on our board of directors. Iâll arrange for you to sit on the board of a few other corporations linked to entrepreneurial space travel. Your income will be in the solid six figures.â
âSo I sit in a boardroom from time to time?â
âYouâll do much more than that, Commander. Youâll work with our engineers developing innovative flight tech. Youâd also be our public face. I donât make a good spokesperson. I prefer the background.â
âStill, Iâd be flying a desk.â
âWhich is pretty much what youâre doing now. However, youâll do more than fly a desk, Commander. I want you to be our first pilot.â
Tuck didnât know whether to laugh or not. âYou want me to fly a homemade spaceship? Into space?â
âSuborbital at first, then orbital. And Legacy is hardly a homemade spaceship.â
âAnd you think that comment should make me feel better?â
âWhen you see it, youâll know Iâm right.â
âI canât decide if youâre mad or laboring under the self-delusion of genius.â
âCommander, you know this can be done. It has been done. Burt Rutanâs company Scaled Composites won the X-Prize in 2004 by flying into space twice within fourteen days. SpaceShipOne reached three hundred twenty-eight thousand feet. Earned them ten million bucks. Michael W. Melvill was sixty-three when he reached space.â
âIâm aware of all that, Mr. Roos, but Iâm just not interested.â
Roos pulled a card from his front pants pocket. Unlike most business cards, this one was made of plastic. âI hope you change your mind.â
âI doubt I will.â Tuck took the card.
âOh, one other thing. Lance Campbell signed on last week. Youâre my choice for lead pilot, but if you decide to stay your course, then Iâll offer him the position.â
âCampbell? Youâre kidding, right?â
âI know you two have a bit of history, but I figure you can work it out.â
âHistory? Yeah, you might say we have history.â
Roos smiled. âOdd, he said the same thing.â
SIX
G rass had covered the gentle mound, its boundaries marked off by a border of flowers. A six-foot-high black marble monolith stood like a sentry over the spot, casting a long, thin shadow that bisected the manicured spot and fell upon the man who stood at the other end of plant-bounded ground.
Had an observer been present, he would have seen no more movement from the man than the stone marker. Overhead, a coagulated bank of clouds stumbled across the sky. A churning breeze tugged at the manâs leather newsboy cap. The cap refused to yield its spot. The wind did manage to brush the white beard that hung from sagging cheeks and pointed chin.
Protected by a black leather coat and thick corduroy pants, the man ignored the wind. Other images filled his mind. Images of a spaceship, of a man in a space suit, of a funeral.
Vincent Pistacchia clenched his fists, released them, and then clenched them again as if each were a slowly pumping heart.
It had been a year and more since they brought his son home from space, dead and cold. He arrived on Earth, not like the other astronauts, but in the cargo bay, his feet still strapped to that blasted mechanical arm.
âAll dead but one.â He spoke to the grave as if its contents could hear and reply. âI told you flying was not the
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