Back to the Moon by Homer Hickam

year apart. Cecil anticipated a quiet life working small law on a small island. That was, of course, before MEC arrived. Since then life had been a bit more complicated.
    MEC had leased the old abandoned Harper Aviation hangar at the airport and Cecil had drawn up the lease. With the arrival of MEC it was as if the heart of the sleepy island sped up a few beats. The MEC workers moved into town and became a part of it, hanging out in the bars at night, shepherding big trucks filled with machinery and things covered with canvas into the hangar by day. For the price of a beer they were only too happy to regale the locals with tales of the glory days of space, of the
Atlas
booster, which they called the Beast, and the
Titan,
which they called the Old Lady, those grand machines built for war but used to explore the heavens instead. And, of course, they spoke in reverent tones of the great old
Saturn,
the rocket to which some of them had given their youth, others too young to work on it but knowing its design as if it had been their own.
    In the process of working the property deal Cecil had gotten to know the president of the company, Jack Medaris. When Terri, Cecil’s wife, had been hired as Medaris’s personal secretary, Jack gradually became a family friend. Cecil had given Jack a standing invitation to go out to fish and sail anytime he had a minute free. A couple of times Jack had taken Cecil up on his offer. During those day trips on Cecil’s small sailboat he and Jack had gotten to know each other, spent hours talking about philosophy and politics. Cecil had come to admire Jack but was never certain he ever understood him, at least not until Jack finally told him about his wife and what had happened to her in Huntsville. Another time, during a visit to the plant, Jack had walked Cecil through the bustling little factory, leading him to a big rocket engine on a hardstand in the center of the hangar. “That’s the nozzle and there’s the combustion chamber,” Jack told him, not even asking if he wanted an explanation. “Controlled explosions occur in the chamber and then hot gases flow through the throat of the nozzle and out the bell. That’s the action. The reaction is motion. It’s Newton’s third law, Cecil. Do you understand?”
    Cecil didn’t, not entirely, but he claimed he did and kept listening. Cecil remembered Jack circling the engine, his hand reaching out but not quite touching it. “That’s the physics involved,” Jack said. And, in fact, this is an advanced hybrid engine. It combines the best features of liquid and solid propellants. “But do you know what really makes this rocket fly, Cecil?”
    â€œNo, Jack. What really make this rocket fly?”
    Jack had touched the engine,
caressed it,
Cecil thought. “This rocket flies on dreams.”
    Cecil turned at the beach road, contemplated the lapping sea. To his delight he found Paris and Helen and their kit, Magnus, feeding in the shallows. He stopped his truck and smiled at the dolphin family. They ignored him, intent on the hunt, but Cecil didn’t mind. It was enough that he could enjoy the sight of them. He watched as little Magnus darted between his doting parents. Paris was big but moved quickly past the fry, which reacted by condensing into a tight, protective ball. He circled them, building up a vortex, and then Helen clipped the ball, taking her fill. She touched Magnus with her fin and the stubby dolphin-child followed her example, gulping in two quick bites of fry-ball. Paris then went in hard, going for the center, the silvery fish scattering like a shattered mirror. Cecil felt like applauding as the dolphin family vented for air and then eased out toward deeper water. “Good luck,” Cecil wished the family. He wished the same for himself.
    After the MEC hangar had burned on that dark night back in February, Jack and his people had gone into a shell for a while.