Gunther moved as swiftly as his frail build permitted. 'Our low level radar has detected three helicopters coming out of the southwest. The shuttle is being fueled now. They've worked up a trajectory, but it only has a three- minute window.' He looked worried.
I closed a couple of intransigent zippers. 'Let's go.'
We followed the old man to a set of doors that opened to the outside. He pointed toward an ancient Dodge van upon which the fading remnants of psychedelic paint fought a losing battle with an encroaching battalion of rust.
At his speed, I wondered whether we'd have enough time to make it to the vehicle, let alone the launch pad.
We climbed aboard as he gunned the engine into life. Ann hadn't even sat down before he peeled away at a dragster's pace. The rear doors alternated swinging open or shut, depending on which way the van swerved.
After less than a minute of breakneck speed, we arrived at the foot of the gantry. Gunther ushered us hurriedly out, urging us into the elevator.
'T-minus five minutes, thirty seconds,' blared a calm voice over the loudspeakers. The claxon continued to wail.
A dozen men and women scurried about the base of the launch pad and up the gantry. The chill cold of liquefied fuels ran down the sides of the boosters. I gazed heavenward.
The sky was almost black. Against the starry backdrop towered
. Something like awe began swelling inside my throat.
A firm hand shoved me into the lift.
'Move it!' Gunther closed the door and hit the power button. We rose with unsettling speed. Gunther watched us for signs of vertigo.
'Where's Canfield?' I asked him.
'He should be inside running through the checklist.'
The elevator jerked to a halt, tossing us a foot into the air. Gunther slid the cage aside and led us across the gantry arm to the cockpit hatch.
'In order to avoid being apprehended,' he said, reaching inside the pocket of his lab coat, 'I want you to wear these disguises.' He handed each of us a pair of Groucho glasses-the ones with the fake nose, eyebrows, and moustache. He paused long enough to laugh at our bewilderment.
'In. In.' He pushed us toward the hatch. 'Have a textbook flight. We'll see you when you come down.'
'Gunther,' I said, 'those copters may be carrying bombs. You'd better clear everyone out.'
He dismissed the warning with a wave of a wrinkled hand. 'I survived the raid on Peenemunde. Three whirlybirds are nothing.'
He took a loving final look at Bridget, winked, and sealed us in.
The hatch cycled with an ear-pressing sigh. I turned to see the cockpit. Everything was cockeyed. If you took an airplane and stuck it on its tail, the seats would run up the side of wall, too. It wouldn't matter once we were in orbit, and we'd be sitting properly while gliding back home. If we made it that far.
Up in the pilot's seat was a black-clad figure already strapped in. He wore his helmet with the gold-anodized faceplate pulled down. Looking at him, I only saw my own reflection.
'Canfield,' I said, 'think we can get out of here in time?'
'We will if you put on your helmets and strap in.' His voice sounded tinny and odd coming from the speaker mounted on his chest controls.
I helped Bridget, Ann, and Isadora climb up to their seats. Then I had to use their seats as a step to reach the forward right-hand seatthe co-pilot's chair. We retrieved the helmets from the clasps on the seat backs and fastened them onto the metal neck rings.
'
