She shrugged. 'Follow the music?'
I nodded.
The wet bottoms of my gum-soled shoes made annoying squeaking sounds against the cement floor. Ann's boot- heels clicked in pleasant contrast. Neither of us could have sneaked up on anyone.
I felt like an explorer in a haunted tomb.
I preceded Blondie through the rear door of the office. It led directly to the main assembly room. Almost an acre of open space spread before us under a vaulted roof. It would have made an impressive indoor tennis court, though I'd seen larger ones.
Partitions hung here and there, obstructing our forward view. Looking up at the ceiling was the only way to see the entire span of the place. We weaved past several of the barriers. Then we saw it.
It lay there on its landing gear-white and gleaming and smooth and graceful. Like a giant dove, its wings were swept back in anticipation of flight. The cockpit stood twenty feet above us-a multifaceted gem inlaid against sleek pearl.
'It's beautiful,' Ann whispered.
A deep voice behind us said, 'It's a piece of junk.'
We turned to see a tall man in a pair of greasy red coveralls. He was young, with the usual vague tan that typified nearly everyone from L.A. He sat next to the radio, legs outstretched, leaning against a pile of titanium struts. His fingers were interlaced behind his head.
'Junk?' My shoes squeaked with my turn.
He stood. 'Old man Geislinger had a good idea, building low-cost space shuttles. Only problem was, NASA didn't want anyone competing with their overpriced jalopies.'
I put a foot up on a crate. 'They didn't like that, I suppose.'
'No, sir! The Federal Trade Commission nearly drove the old man to ruin. The only money he made was in the countereconomy. When he finally
, the company went up for grabs, and George Turner tried greenmailing a leveraged buyout to drive the stock price up.'
'Doesn't seem to have worked,' said Ann, surveying the remains of the factory.
'No, ma'am. George was never much of a businessman. The greenmail blew up in his face. The management revolted and unfurled their golden parachutes. He wound up stuck with a gutted company and no one to run it. Then the Hudson Phoenix shot the cost of spaceflight through the floor.'
He stood to stretch, sticking his hand out to me. 'The name's Canfield. I piloted some of the old man's shuttles until Georgie boy took over and I got put back in electronics.'
He gave me a firm, friendly grip and an open, unpretentious smile. His prematurely grey hair was short and neat.
I introduced Ann and myself, then asked, 'Can you fly this thing?'
He gazed up at the shuttle. 'If I were suicidal. The old man had us building good, solid spacecraft. None of that multiple redundancy crap you find on most ships. He built them cheap and sturdy, and they worked just fine. Then Turner comes in and decides to comply with FTC regulations. It was downhill after that.'
I didn't want to hear the entire history of StratoDyne. 'What would it take to get you to fly this thing?'
'Modifications.'
'Such as?' Ann asked.
He eyed her up and down, then let his gaze drift to the spacecraft. 'I call her
. I like that better than
' He stepped over to pat the underside of the hulk. 'Yeah, a lot of mod-'
