Skycorp.
Popeye had forgotten to arrive late to get aboard the ferry. It was a game the beamjacks sometimes played: Who could find an excuse to board the ferry last? Popeye winced at his dumbness. Hang around indeed, while your arm muscles got cramped from holding the rail and your eyes got tired of looking at the back of your buddy’s head… or ass, if he was turned upside down.
He looked around and saw his own expression mirrored on Webb’s face. Webb grinned painfully and rolled his eyes up in his head: Boy , I guess we fucked up again. Popeye nodded and looked away, never dreaming that his luck had just changed.
He had had a lousy day up to now. But while space does not often forgive mistakes, sometimes it may let one slide your way. Because of his error, Hooker was given the opportunity to make more during the rest of his life.
9
Zulu Tango Approach
F OR ONCE, VIRGIN BRUCE felt good. Absolutely on top of the whole damn world. Not only that, but he was feeling good he was on the clock, a miracle in itself because he hated to work. He felt so good he could sing, and so he did:
“What in the world ever became of sweet Jane?
“She lost her sparkle, you know she isn’t the same;
“Livin’ on reds, vitamin C and cocaine;
“All a friend can say is ain’t it a shame.”
When he received the cassette recorder Doc Felapolous had promised him and had it installed in the instrument panel of his pod, he wouldn’t have to sing Grateful Dead songs to himself. He would get some tapes shipped up to him—surely one of his few remaining friends in St. Louis or Kansas City wouldn’t begrudge him that small favor—and then he could ride in style and never mind the syrupy versions of “Moon River” everyone else was subjected to day in and day out.
“Truckin’, like the doo-dah-man,
“Once told me ‘Gotta play your hand.
“‘Sometimes the cards ain’t worth a dime
“‘If you don’t lay ’em down.’”
As he sang he glanced through the canopy, checking his trajectory by eyeball-reckoning his distance from the powersat. The computer screen in front of him, which displayed a graphic simulation of his approach angle to the huge satellite, told him that he was just under a mile away—of course, the numbers were actually in metric figures, but he had long ago become used to making the mental conversion to yards and miles, because he was an American , goddammit—yet for an experienced pilot nothing could replace eyeball navigation. Bruce pushed the yoke forward a tad and gave the throttle a little push, and one of the RCR’s on the fuselage fired, braking his approach. The powersat floated upward a bit. He glanced down at the screen, making sure that the navaids computer agreed with what his eyes told him, and confirmed to himself that he was on a steady course for the construction shack. Nice shooting, guy. Who needs the computer? Satisfied, he grinned and resumed singing.
“Arrows of neon and flashing marquees down on Main Street…”
Another construction pod passed before him, carrying a load of rebars in its claws, its spotlights dazzling him briefly with their glare.
“Chicago, New York, Detroit, and it’s all on the same street.”
Chicago, he thought. What a hell of a town. I used to love cruising my bike down Lakeshore Drive, checking out all the rich dames in their spiffy threads. What a trip that was.
“Your typical city involved in a typical daydream,
“Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings…”
Vulcan Control to Pod Zulu Tango. What the hell do you think you’re doing , Neiman?
Virgin Bruce sucked in his cheeks and widened his eyes, the way he remembered Eddie Murphy doing when Bruce was a kid watching Saturday Night Live on TV: “Uh, oh, it’s the landlord!”
Virgin Bruce reached up to his chin and made sure his headset mike was adjusted, then reached to the communications panel to switch it on. To his chagrin, he found that it had already been switched on. Oh, hell, he
Popeye had forgotten to arrive late to get aboard the ferry. It was a game the beamjacks sometimes played: Who could find an excuse to board the ferry last? Popeye winced at his dumbness. Hang around indeed, while your arm muscles got cramped from holding the rail and your eyes got tired of looking at the back of your buddy’s head… or ass, if he was turned upside down.
He looked around and saw his own expression mirrored on Webb’s face. Webb grinned painfully and rolled his eyes up in his head: Boy , I guess we fucked up again. Popeye nodded and looked away, never dreaming that his luck had just changed.
He had had a lousy day up to now. But while space does not often forgive mistakes, sometimes it may let one slide your way. Because of his error, Hooker was given the opportunity to make more during the rest of his life.
9
Zulu Tango Approach
F OR ONCE, VIRGIN BRUCE felt good. Absolutely on top of the whole damn world. Not only that, but he was feeling good he was on the clock, a miracle in itself because he hated to work. He felt so good he could sing, and so he did:
“What in the world ever became of sweet Jane?
“She lost her sparkle, you know she isn’t the same;
“Livin’ on reds, vitamin C and cocaine;
“All a friend can say is ain’t it a shame.”
When he received the cassette recorder Doc Felapolous had promised him and had it installed in the instrument panel of his pod, he wouldn’t have to sing Grateful Dead songs to himself. He would get some tapes shipped up to him—surely one of his few remaining friends in St. Louis or Kansas City wouldn’t begrudge him that small favor—and then he could ride in style and never mind the syrupy versions of “Moon River” everyone else was subjected to day in and day out.
“Truckin’, like the doo-dah-man,
“Once told me ‘Gotta play your hand.
“‘Sometimes the cards ain’t worth a dime
“‘If you don’t lay ’em down.’”
As he sang he glanced through the canopy, checking his trajectory by eyeball-reckoning his distance from the powersat. The computer screen in front of him, which displayed a graphic simulation of his approach angle to the huge satellite, told him that he was just under a mile away—of course, the numbers were actually in metric figures, but he had long ago become used to making the mental conversion to yards and miles, because he was an American , goddammit—yet for an experienced pilot nothing could replace eyeball navigation. Bruce pushed the yoke forward a tad and gave the throttle a little push, and one of the RCR’s on the fuselage fired, braking his approach. The powersat floated upward a bit. He glanced down at the screen, making sure that the navaids computer agreed with what his eyes told him, and confirmed to himself that he was on a steady course for the construction shack. Nice shooting, guy. Who needs the computer? Satisfied, he grinned and resumed singing.
“Arrows of neon and flashing marquees down on Main Street…”
Another construction pod passed before him, carrying a load of rebars in its claws, its spotlights dazzling him briefly with their glare.
“Chicago, New York, Detroit, and it’s all on the same street.”
Chicago, he thought. What a hell of a town. I used to love cruising my bike down Lakeshore Drive, checking out all the rich dames in their spiffy threads. What a trip that was.
“Your typical city involved in a typical daydream,
“Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings…”
Vulcan Control to Pod Zulu Tango. What the hell do you think you’re doing , Neiman?
Virgin Bruce sucked in his cheeks and widened his eyes, the way he remembered Eddie Murphy doing when Bruce was a kid watching Saturday Night Live on TV: “Uh, oh, it’s the landlord!”
Virgin Bruce reached up to his chin and made sure his headset mike was adjusted, then reached to the communications panel to switch it on. To his chagrin, he found that it had already been switched on. Oh, hell, he
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