Orbit

“Oh no!”

“Right on the front steps.”

“Is he all right?” The smiling faces of Tommy and Anna Altavilla are vivid in his mind.

“He will be. It was a relatively mild attack and we got him to the emergency room fast enough, but he’s been airlifted to Cedars-Sinai in L.A. and Anna, of course, went with him.”

“God, I’m sorry to hear this.”

“I know it. I mean, our first concern is Tommy’s welfare, but after that, we’ve got to address the empty seats on the flight, and it just got more complicated an hour ago when Tariq, your other fellow passenger, got a call from Riyadh to get back there fast. He couldn’t tell us why, but his Gulf-stream lifted off thirty minutes ago, and I hear the House of Saud is teetering on the brink of a revolution.”

Middle Eastern politics are of no interest to Kip and besides, he hadn’t bonded with Tariq al Ashad.

Tommy and Anna, however, are another story.

“Three empty seats,” Kip replies. “I see the problem. So, when can I reschedule?”

“Well… that’s why we wanted to talk to you, Kip. This trip is already unique because we have a small commercial payload scheduled for tomorrow… essentially an industrial, scientific experiment we’re being well paid for… and we’ve made the decision to launch with or without passengers. So, if you’re still up for it, you’ll have the craft and your pilot, Bill Campbell, all to yourself—which means you’ll get much more window time.”

His hesitation, if any, is measured in nanoseconds. “Hell, yes, I’m up for it! I was afraid you were going to… what’s that word you use?”

“Scrub it,” Jack Railey replies. “Comes from the World War II use of grease boards for scheduling. When you canceled a mission back then, you literally scrubbed its listing off the grease board.”

“I’m ready, at any rate,” Kip says. “I don’t want to reschedule.”

DiFazio gets to his feet with a tired smile.

“Great! That helps us, too, you know, not having to displace a paying passenger later.” A worried look crosses DiFazio’s face as he realizes the implications of the phrase “paying passenger” in front of a contest winner. “I apologize for that reference, Kip. You’re an honored guest, and I didn’t mean…”

“No problem. I’m glad it works out. This is, after all, a business.”

“I appreciate that,” Richard replies, his concerned look softening as he nods and extends his hand. “Okay, then. Someone will be banging on your door at zero three hundred. I hope you’ll have a wonderful, memorable flight, Kip. We’re all very glad you won the contest, and I’ve got to tell you on behalf of all of our folks that you’ve been a delight to have with us dur-ing training.” He starts to turn away, then turns back. “Kip, I agree completely with Diana Ross, by the way, that given your enthusiasm for private space flight, we need to talk later about involving you in some of our advertising.”

“Can’t wait.”

He walks back to the plush ASA guest quarters and his assigned suite, his mind alternating between Tommy and Anna Altavilla and the flight. He wonders whether he should try to call Anna at the hospital in L.A., and decides against it for now. Despite their bonding during training, the economic and social divide between them is immense—though the Altavillas never paid heed to it.

DiFazio’s mention of ASA’s publicity director has sparked a warm flash, and in the privacy of his room, Diana Ross’s face returns to his thoughts—especially the memory of the first time he saw her.

He’d been a nonswimmer in deep water at a big ASA reception in New York, and she’d been the lifeguard— though he hadn’t known it at first. It was early evening with a cold rain and sharp wind whipping the umbrellas from the hands of the locals, and the cab ride from his hotel had been wet and fast, his suit pants still damp from getting in and out of the downpour. The ballroom at the Waldorf was full of elegant women that evening—polished, poised females with a serenity about their beauty that made him feel like a stammering sophomore. One such young woman in particular had caught his curiosity as she glided effortlessly between conversations, greeting friends, her smile warm, her persona inviting. Her long, black hair framed a flawless, oval face, her eyes amazingly blue and unforgettably large, and he’d been shocked when she turned and smiled at him. Even across the room he’d averted his eyes for a moment from this long-legged beauty, but when he looked back he let himself notice an abundance of cleavage framed by an expensive, gold-trimmed gown and matching heels—the trappings of a confident woman.

Suddenly, she headed across the room straight for him, which was confusing, and he’d sidled closer to an enormous floral arrangement as if to hide while a flurry of prohibited thoughts flitted through his head.

“Why, Mr. Dawson,” she’d said with an endearing smile, “is that you in the potted plant?”

There was no way to know she was an officer of ASA assigned to mentor him through the preflight publicity process, and his discovering that had been a small letdown.

“I’m Diana Ross, ASA’s director of publicity, and, yes, I’ve heard every possible joke about my name, and no, I don’t sing.”

“Glad to meet you, Diana.”

She’d immediately turned to the business of asking him to sit for several TV interviews.

“So, the thing is, I’m in trouble here and I need your help. This soiree… this reception… is my idea. Oh, of course the primary purpose was to welcome you as the winner, but this party is really to get the media excited again so they can get the rest of the country excited. But… all we’ve been able to draw are two local TV camera crews and one reporter. Pathetic. I could generate that with a bake sale in Des Moines, for God’s sake.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs. “We didn’t expect private space flight to become quite so routine quite so soon. But here’s the thing. I really need to have you participate in a couple of on-camera interviews with the two crews who were kind enough to straggle in. It’ll be painless, I promise. Just be yourself and tell them what it was like to win, and how you feel about going into space.” She cocks her head, her eyes on his. “So, how do you feel?”

“I’m excited,” he’d replied. But Sharon’s angst was uppermost in his mind, muting his reaction.

“Excited, huh? Could have fooled me.”

Kip remembered laughing in mild embarrassment before returning his gaze to her. It felt slightly disturbing, as if she could read too much, and there was an instant attraction beyond the physical, especially when he’d felt her businesslike facade falter as well. “They’ll ask me that? If I’m excited?” Kip had countered.

“Sorry?” she’d replied, distracted for a moment as she studied his eyes. Her recovery took a few telling seconds.

“Oh. Yes. They’ll ask you that and more. Brace for silly questions.” She adopted a stylized voice deeper than her own, a smarmy tone coming through. “So, Mr. Dawson, how does it feel to be going into outer space?”

“Outer…”

“Too many local reporters don’t know there’s a difference between low Earth orbit and so-called ‘outer space.’” She’d laughed. “Of course, we fly in low Earth orbit.”

“I know that,” he’d replied. “Even my cat knows the difference between outer space and a low Earth orbit.”

“But, you see, they often don’t. Tomorrow morning, however,” she’d said with pride, “you’re going to be on Good Morning America, and those folks know all about this stuff.”

His jaw had dropped. There hadn’t been any mention of national TV. Just the reception.

“Isn’t that great?” she’d continued, searching for an approving response. “My one big success in this campaign.”

But his pained, almost panicked expression had been undisguised. Sharon Dawson never missed GMA and made no secret of being in love with the host, and she would see Kip talking about the very thing that had sent her into orbit.

He’d tried to find a way out. “Diana, I don’t think you want me on national TV. I’m kind of a private person.”

“Nonsense. Oh, by the way,” she’d said without missing a beat, “I was sorry to hear that your wife couldn’t be with us tonight. Forgive my prying, but, is she worried about your flight?”

“You might say that,” Kip had responded, irritated that she’d dragged it out of him. But there it was, dammit.