instrumentation room, which ran the width of the building, and two firing rooms, A on the left and B on the right, angled toward the two launch pads served by this blockhouse. Elspeth stepped into Firing Room B.
The strong sunlight coming through the green glass cast a weird light over the whole place so that it looked like the inside of an aquarium. In front of the windows, a row of scientists sat at a bank of control panels. They all wore short-sleeved shirts, she noticed, as if it were a uniform. They had headsets through which they could talk to the men on the launch pad. They could look over their panels and see the rocket throughthe windows, or check the color television screens which showed the same picture. Along the back wall of the firing room, a row of pen recorders stood shoulder to shoulder, tracking temperatures, pressures in the fuel system, and electrical activity. In the far corner was a scale showing the weight of the missile on the launch pad. There was an air of quiet urgency as the men murmured into their headsets and worked their panels, turning a knob here, throwing a switch there, constantly checking the dials and counters. Over their heads, a countdown clock showed the minutes left to ignition. As Elspeth looked, the hand clicked down from 600 to 599.
She handed out her update and left the building. Driving back to the hangar, her mind turned to Luke, and she realized she had a perfect excuse for calling Anthony. She would tell him about the jet stream, then ask about Luke.
That perked her up, and she hurried into the hangar and up the stairs to her office. She dialed Anthony’s direct line and got him right away. “The launch is likely to be postponed until tomorrow,” she told him. “There are strong winds in the stratosphere.”
“I didn’t know there were winds up there.”
“There’s one, it’s called the jet stream. The postponement isn’t definite, there’s a weather review meeting at five. How’s Luke?”
“Let me know the upshot of that meeting, okay?”
“Of course. How’s Luke?”
“Well, we have a problem there.”
Her heart missed a beat. “What kind of a problem?”
“We’ve lost him.”
Elspeth felt cold. “What?”
“He slipped away from my men.”
“Jesus, help us,” she said. “Now we’re in trouble.”
1941
Luke arrived back in Boston at dawn. He parked the old Ford, slipped in through the back door of Cambridge House, and climbed the service stairs to his room. Anthony was fast asleep. Luke washed his face and fell into bed in his underwear.
Next thing he knew, Anthony was shaking him, saying, “Luke! Get up!”
He opened his eyes. He knew that something bad had happened, but he could not recall what it was. “What’s the time?” he mumbled.
“It’s one o’clock, and Elspeth is waiting for you downstairs.”
The mention of Elspeth’s name jogged his memory, and he recalled what the calamity was. He did not love her anymore. “Oh, God,” he said.
“You’d better go down and see her.”
He had fallen in love with Billie Josephson. That was the disaster. It would make a train wreck of all their lives: his own, Elspeth’s, Billie’s, and Anthony’s.
“Hell,” he said, and he got up.
He stripped off his underwear and took a cold shower. When he closed his eyes he saw Billie, her dark eyes flashing, her red mouth laughing, her white throat. He pulled on a pair of flannels, a sweater, and tennis shoes, then staggered downstairs.
Elspeth was waiting in the lobby, the only part of the building where girls were allowed, except on specially designated Ladies’ Afternoons. It was a spacious hall with a fireplace and comfortable chairs. She was as eye-catching as ever, in a wool dress the color of bluebells, and a big hat. Yesterday, the sight of her would have gladdened his heart; today, the knowledge that she had dressed up for him just made him feel even more wretched.
She laughed when she saw him. “You look like a small
The strong sunlight coming through the green glass cast a weird light over the whole place so that it looked like the inside of an aquarium. In front of the windows, a row of scientists sat at a bank of control panels. They all wore short-sleeved shirts, she noticed, as if it were a uniform. They had headsets through which they could talk to the men on the launch pad. They could look over their panels and see the rocket throughthe windows, or check the color television screens which showed the same picture. Along the back wall of the firing room, a row of pen recorders stood shoulder to shoulder, tracking temperatures, pressures in the fuel system, and electrical activity. In the far corner was a scale showing the weight of the missile on the launch pad. There was an air of quiet urgency as the men murmured into their headsets and worked their panels, turning a knob here, throwing a switch there, constantly checking the dials and counters. Over their heads, a countdown clock showed the minutes left to ignition. As Elspeth looked, the hand clicked down from 600 to 599.
She handed out her update and left the building. Driving back to the hangar, her mind turned to Luke, and she realized she had a perfect excuse for calling Anthony. She would tell him about the jet stream, then ask about Luke.
That perked her up, and she hurried into the hangar and up the stairs to her office. She dialed Anthony’s direct line and got him right away. “The launch is likely to be postponed until tomorrow,” she told him. “There are strong winds in the stratosphere.”
“I didn’t know there were winds up there.”
“There’s one, it’s called the jet stream. The postponement isn’t definite, there’s a weather review meeting at five. How’s Luke?”
“Let me know the upshot of that meeting, okay?”
“Of course. How’s Luke?”
“Well, we have a problem there.”
Her heart missed a beat. “What kind of a problem?”
“We’ve lost him.”
Elspeth felt cold. “What?”
“He slipped away from my men.”
“Jesus, help us,” she said. “Now we’re in trouble.”
1941
Luke arrived back in Boston at dawn. He parked the old Ford, slipped in through the back door of Cambridge House, and climbed the service stairs to his room. Anthony was fast asleep. Luke washed his face and fell into bed in his underwear.
Next thing he knew, Anthony was shaking him, saying, “Luke! Get up!”
He opened his eyes. He knew that something bad had happened, but he could not recall what it was. “What’s the time?” he mumbled.
“It’s one o’clock, and Elspeth is waiting for you downstairs.”
The mention of Elspeth’s name jogged his memory, and he recalled what the calamity was. He did not love her anymore. “Oh, God,” he said.
“You’d better go down and see her.”
He had fallen in love with Billie Josephson. That was the disaster. It would make a train wreck of all their lives: his own, Elspeth’s, Billie’s, and Anthony’s.
“Hell,” he said, and he got up.
He stripped off his underwear and took a cold shower. When he closed his eyes he saw Billie, her dark eyes flashing, her red mouth laughing, her white throat. He pulled on a pair of flannels, a sweater, and tennis shoes, then staggered downstairs.
Elspeth was waiting in the lobby, the only part of the building where girls were allowed, except on specially designated Ladies’ Afternoons. It was a spacious hall with a fireplace and comfortable chairs. She was as eye-catching as ever, in a wool dress the color of bluebells, and a big hat. Yesterday, the sight of her would have gladdened his heart; today, the knowledge that she had dressed up for him just made him feel even more wretched.
She laughed when she saw him. “You look like a small
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