She laughed. Her laughter grew louder and higher until it cracked.
'Not exactly,' she said after a moment. All humor had drained from her face, as if someone had slugged her. She said nothing more until we separated to go to our hotel rooms.
The next day we visited my rocket factory.
17
Starfinder
STRATODYNE CORPORATION, INC.
ALTERNATIVE TRANSPORTATION SYSTEMS
NO TRESPASSING!
'They don't encourage much walk-in trade, do they?' I stared at the peeling sign on the rust-stained gate. The cyclone fencing could have been torn apart with a buttonhook. A formidable padlock connected the two ends of a chain that could have been cut in half with a pair of scissors.
Ann reached over to the steering wheel to honk the horn.
'Not much need for security out here,' she said. 'But they try.'
A faded guardhouse stood beyond the gate. A bent old black man in a grey uniform stepped out, unlocked the gate, and stepped over to my side of the Chrysler.
'We called,' Ann said. 'This is Mr. Ammo.'
The old man nodded. 'That's right. That's right.' He walked back to the gate to open it all the way.
'Sort of lonely out here, isn't it?' I said.
The old man pointed at his guard shack. 'That thing's full of a mess of books. Time to read's what I got. I'm seein' the world.' He waved us through as if in a dream. 'Seein' the world.'
The path to the factory was unpaved. We kicked up enough dirt to signal our movement for miles. We wouldn't have to worry about that, though. Clouds darkened the sky overhead. The streets in Claremont a few miles back had been slick from morning rain.
A drop of water spattered against the windshield like an angry bug. A few more droplets descended from the sky to hit the car or make little dust explosions on the road. A starling hopped out of our way, cursing the twin intrusions of car and rain.
We drove into a narrow canyon that widened around a bend, revealing the vast StratoDyne manufacturing empire. A decaying assembly building covered an acre or so of real estate. Another acre of unpaved parking lot abutted its south side. A sloping concrete wall about a mile away separated the building from a circular concrete launching pad.
One lone thirty-year-old Buick, wearing more rust than paint, snuggled up close to the building. A crow cawed wearily, circling about the facility dodging raindrops. It landed on the roof of the building to seek sanctuary under a girder.
I drove down an incline toward the Buick. The rain had already begun to drag the road dust down the shoulders in little rivulets.
I parked in front of the other car. After a quick sprint, we reached a door marked
General Office
, standing halfway open. A fluorescent lamp flickered inside. The rain fell around the building like a collapsing world.
Ann pulled the door shut. Her khaki jumpsuit looked like a leopard's spotted hide. The brass buttons and buckles that served as functional accents glinted in the unsteady pulsations of the indoor light.
The office was empty. The intermittent buzz of the lamp could not compete with the sound of the rain outside.
I looked around. Vacant chairs faced naked typewriters. Paper trays squatted on desks like starving animals, waiting to be filled. The wall clock was an hour and a half slow. Someone had once tossed sharpened pencils at a poster of a NASA space shuttle, where they still remained stuck. The words
had been scrawled across the poster. I wondered whether they referred to the abortive NASA fiasco or whether a disgruntled employee had fired a parting shot. I suppose it didn't matter in either case.
Somewhere amidst the noise of the downpour, the sound of a radio faintly drifted into the room. It played a forgotten tune by an obscure rock band.
I glanced at Ann.
