"All right," said Alex, still not quite believing it. "There are chemical plants operating that make hydrogen--"
"They're small, too. Ten to twenty people."
"And pipe it through the desert. And the LOX you get by compressing air and letting the 02 boil off. Fine. But a half million pounds--"
Cole shook his head emphatically. "That's the total, not all of that is hydrogen. What you need is 66,500 pounds of hydrogen. It's bulky, but well, there are ways."
"And the oxygen?" Gordon asked.
"Most of the ship is oxygen," Alex said.
"All right, I bite," Fang said. "How do you liquify air?"
"Turbo expander," Cole said. "Four hundred thousand pounds of oxygen, make it on the spot."
"Where do we get a--turbo expander?" Bruce asked.
Cole shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't cared since they--since they ruined my ship. But Gary will know. Oh yes, Gary will know."
Mike Glider folded his index forger halfway. "Only half a strike left."
Alex found himself nodding, nodding. Half a strike. "Now I'm lost. A--turbo expander. What powers that?"
"It's like a jet engine," Cole said. "Very like, a jet engine. In fact, it is a jet engine, but it won't fly--"
"So it needs--"
"JP-4. Kerosene," Cole said.
"A lot of kerosene, I expect," Oliver Brown said.
Mike Glider held up one finger again. "Strike--"
"Yes, a lot," Cole said. "But not more than we have."
"What?" Bruce demanded.
Cole grinned widely. "Larry and Curly. You must meet them. Alas, I sold Moe…"
The door on the abandoned warehouse bore a stenciled sign reading Private Property--Museum of Science and Appropriate Technology. Rust speckled the metal siding; grass and weeds had punched through the cracks and edges of the concrete truck apron. The shattered windows had been boarded over and covered with graffiti boasting of long-vanished gangs. The cold wind blew off the lake and crystal patches of gray frost nestled unmelted in the shadows.
Cole bent over the padlock and worried it with a key. "This leads back into the bluff underneath the museum. It forms a subbasement where they used to bring exhibits in and out. Hardly used anymore. No sir. Hardly used."
Alex, Bob, Sherrine and Oliver stood behind him, casting occasional wary glances around the open area by the lake and at the museum.
"Ah." Cole grunted in satisfaction and the chain fell away. The doors pulled smoothly up and clicked into place with a satisfying snap. Behind them, two gleaming Peterbilt tractors reared high and proud. The headlights and grillwork had been polished to a sparkle that coruscated from the quiet sun overhead.
"There they are," Cole announced. "Larry and Curly."
Alex stepped into the warehouse. He ran his hand along the bright, cold grillwork. Each tractor was hitched to a long, silver, cylindrical tanker. The logo painted on the side read:
MILKHEIM
LOW-FAT MILK
"These will hold liquid gasses?"
Cole's head bobbed. "Twelve thousand gallons each. I got them war surplus for practically nothing. For peaches…" He laughed. "They are filled with RP-4. Enough to power the air converters. Now all you must do is get them to Thunder Ridge."
"Thunder Ridge."
"Edwards Air Force Base," Cole said. "The rocket test stand. Get them there. Gary Hudson will do the rest."
Cole approached the nearest truck--Larry? --and laid his cheek against it. "I've been waiting for this day forever." There were tears in his eyes.
"I don't get it," said Bob. "You've got the ship and you've got Gary to pilot it. You've got the backup ROMs--maybe--and know where to get the IMU. You know where to find fuel and you've got the trucks to move it. So, tell me one thing, Ron. Why didn't Phoenix fly a long time ago?"
Good question, thought Alex.
Cole pointed to Alex. "Because we were waiting for him."
"What?"
"How could you know our scoopship would--"
"Wait!" Oliver held up his hands. "Wait. Ron? Ron, it's all right. It's been years and years. Most of us forgot Phoenix ever existed. How did you know Alex was coming?"
"Know Alex was coming? No, that's silly. Alex? Couldn't know. Couldn't know. But we needed Angels to make it fly. Angels to bear her up into heaven, lest she dash her foot upon a stone."
Alex rubbed a hand over his face. Oh,dear God…
"You see, she won't reach orbit on her own. Gary told me that. Long ago. Before. She's a heavy-duty ship, designed for flight tests. And maybe Gary cut the design too close. She can get to elliptical orbit, but it won't be stable." He turned watery eyes on Alex. "And up to now there's been no way to change that. But you can."
"What in the world is this?" asked Sherrine. She called from the back of the cavernous garage. Alex and the others followed her voice to a dark corner behind the trucks where an immense and convoluted structure of piping stood hissing. Out of one end, small dark droplets of liquid fell into a holding tank. Oliver started to laugh.
"So this is it!" he said.
Cole bounced up and down from his knees, holding a finger over his lips. "Shhhh!"
"What is it?" Sherrine repeated.
Bob frowned at the structure. "It looks familiar. I've seen it somewhere." He started to hold his finger under the dripping liquid, but pulled back. Who knew what that stuff was?
"It's the regenerative cooling system from the old Titan up in the museum," Oliver explained. "Ron stripped it out and used it to make his still. He distills fruit brandies." He placed a finger under the drip and stuck it in his mouth. "Blackberry. Very tasty. The museum doesn't pay Ron squat."
"I pay them," Cole said. "Heh. Apple is best. The trucks were bought with apples and peaches."
Bob started giggling. "Moonshining in the basement of the Museum of Science and Industry? I love it!"
Alex smiled. "Yes, but back to the trucks. Is there fuel? Can we get to California? Or is that another detail?"
"Some details are important," Cole said. He pointed to stacks of 55-gallon drums racked against the far wall opposite the still. "Shemp."
Alex blinked. "Shemp?"
"Fourth truck," Cole told him. "Sold it before I sold Moe. Full of JP-4. Kerosene. Heating oil--"
Oliver nodded. "People pay a lot for heating oil and they don't ask questions."
Alex blew a cloud of breath into the chill air. "No, I don't suppose they do." He had a sudden, wild image of Cole, his eyes glowing crazy, careening Moe around the streets of Chicago, making clandestine midnight deliveries of black market heating oil. It was a hell of a planet.
Bruce was a SMOF. He made a list. SMOFs always make lists.
Sherrine sat on the floor next to Steve, with her knees drawn up under her chin and wondered if she would ever see Gordon and Alex again. She pictured Phoenix soaring skyward on a pillar of fire. God, to be there! But she would be back home, and would hear about it only on the news (if they dared run it on the news) and she would smile a secret smile that her coworkers would never understand.
"First," said Bruce, "we need identity papers for the Angels, in case Phoenix doesn't work out. Sherrine, Mike, Bob and I will be returning to Minneapolis. Sherrine, you'll link up with Tom Marshall and get that ball rolling. Okay?"
Back to Minneapolis. Sherrie nodded. "Sure." Back to the old terminal. It would be tricky, working things out of the University computer center, setting it up so they couldn't trace back to her.