[…]
Pancho glanced at Billy. Billy shrugged his shoulders.
Point eight-three.
Copy that, Jim.
Say, Ridley, sure is dark up here.
Beautiful, Jim.
Jettison remaining lox, glide down.
Copy.
[…]
Jim?
Christ he’s doing a roll!
Jim, that’s not in the flight plan.
Zero-g […]
Copy that, Jim.
Holy hell.
Engine cutout.
[…]
Ridley?
Fuel can’t feed the engine […] zero-g […] down.
Level her out.
Leveling out.
Roger.
[…]
[…]
Walt?
[…]
Dick, what’s his position?
Negative, can’t see […]
Walt?
Nothing.
I see him.
Confirm.
How’s the fuel?
Terrific.
Them NACA boys sure gonna chew you out!
Copy that, Jack; couldn’t resist. Lox spent, gliding home.
Roger that, son.
Well, shit, Harrison! Pancho said. She looked up at Billy.
You want me in tonight?
You bet your sweet ass I do.
Harrison flew more powered flights that afternoon, easing the X-1 up to point nine-six Mach, encountering different problems each time. Lakebed landings were also tough, with no markings and too much open space. Depth perception was an issue; it was easy to bend an airplane porpoising in, or flaring high and cracking off the landing gear. On the last landing, Harrison let the airplane settle in by itself, feeling for the changes in the ground effect as he lowered down, greasing in at a hundred and ninety miles an hour. With no brakes, it took three minutes to roll to a stop. The fire truck drove out and he hitched a lift back to the hangar.
The men debriefed in Ridley’s office, a small room on the second floor of the main hangar. The windows were covered with dust, the walls papered with enlarged photographs of instrument panels, maps of the desert and hanging clipboards, fat with flight reports.
That low frequency rolling motion was most likely fuel sloshing, Ridley said, looking at the clock on the wall. Nothing to worry about.
Well, that’s sure good to hear, Harrison said. We done?
That’s it, Ridley said. Let’s go to Pancho’s.
Grace took a left outside Rosamond, heading home, the package collected from the post office beside her. It was from her father. He sent occasional collections of miscellany; had done for years. There was usually a book, food (tinned or tightly wrapped in waxed paper), a small bottle of spirits, distilled himself, the odd trinket unearthed from the house that would inspire bursts of nostalgia. This haul included a pocket watch, Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, an old photograph of her looking stern on a horse and a bundle of Beemans gum labeled FOR JIM, which saved her going back to the store; she’d forgotten to pick some up. Jim chewed it constantly. He said sucking on pure oxygen when he flew dried out his mouth, and that chewing helped equalize his ear pressure at altitude. Grace also suspected that the pepsin it contained proved handy in the cockpit.
It was almost noon. The hot sun hurt her face. A dust cloud churned up around the car as she drove; the monotony of the Mojave roads almost hypnotic. Her thoughts drifted from her father to her mother to her appointment on Monday. Her body stiffened. Her back began to ache. She leaned forward, against the wheel, stretching it out. She grimaced, then sighed. A sign on the roadside caught her eye. It was tied to a post marking a rough track that led up to Mac’s ranch. She pulled up, let the engine idle, read the sign. She sat in silence for a minute. Then she drove up the track.
The ranch was quiet. Grace stood on the porch of the house, rapped on the door, took a step back. The air felt like sandpaper. She ran a finger across her forehead.
Hey, Mac, you home? she called out. She put her hands on her hips and looked down at the boards. Then she heard a grunt and iron pulling against wood.
Well, Grace! Mac said, standing in the doorway.
Hey, Mac, she said.
Come on in here, he said, standing back. How the hell are you?
Fine, she said. You?
Tired, he said.
The house smelled of hay. It was gloomy after the bright glare of the desert.
Can I get you something?
Something cold be good.
Have a seat.
It was a small room. A square wooden table sat at one end, the kitchen at the other. A black stovepipe ran up the wall from an iron stove. On the wall next to the pipe hung a framed family portrait, a large clock and an old .22. Grace sat down at the table. A small oil-filled lamp swayed above her head.
You broke in that grullo yet? she said.
Hell no, Mac said from the kitchen. That’s one crazy goddamn horse. Should’ve never bought her. I’m gettin too old for this kinda thing.
The hell you are, Grace said as Mac walked back with two bottles pulled from the icebox. He set them down on the table and popped off the caps with an old knife. He had white hair and walked with a slight stoop. His face was brown and smooth, like every desert rancher. He handed Grace one of the bottles and sat down.