The landing is smooth, the Huey settling onto its skids without a jar. Baedecker has to concentrate on the console for a minute, leaving the rotors turning in a hot whisper but making sure the machine will stay earthbound for a few minutes. When he looks out and down, he sees four of the figures still motionless in shadow, but Scott is moving quickly uphill now, breaking into a slow jog up the rough and rocky hillside.
Baedecker kicks open the door, leaves his helmet in the seat, and moves out from under the rotors in an instinctive crouch. At the edge of the hill he stands upright for a minute, hands on his hips, watching. Then, moving quickly but surely on treacherous footing, Baedecker starts down so as to meet his son halfway.
Part Five
Bear Butte
Baedecker ran. He ran hard, the sweat stinging his eyes, his sides aching, his heart pounding, and his panting an audible thing. But he continued to run. The last mile of the four should have been the easiest, but it was by far the hardest. Their running path took them through the dunes and back onto the beach for the last three-quarters of a mile, and it was here that Scott chose to pick up the pace. Baedecker fell five yards behind his son but refused to allow the distance to widen farther.
As their Cocoa Beach motel came into sight, Baedecker felt the effort draining the last reservoirs of his energy, felt his straining heart and lungs demanding a lessening of the pace, and it was then that he accelerated, kicking hard to close the gap between the thin redhead and himself. Scott glanced to his right as his father moved alongside, grinned at Baedecker, and broke into a faster sprint that brought him off the hard, wet shore onto the soft sand of the beach. Baedecker kept up with his son for another fifty paces and then fell back, making the last hundred yards to the low cement wall of the motel in a staggering lope.
Scott was bending and doing stretching exercises as Baedecker collapsed to the sand and set his back against the cement blocks. He dropped his head to his arms and panted.
'Best run yet,' said Scott after a minute. 'Hnrh,' agreed Baedecker.
'Feels good, doesn't it, Dad?'
'Hnnh.'
'I'm going to go in for a swim. Want to come with me?'
Baedecker shook his head. 'Go ahead,' he panted. 'I'll stay here and throw up.'
'Okay,' said Scott. 'See you in a while.' Baedecker watched his son jog across the beach to the water. The Florida sun was very bright, the sand as dazzlingly white as lunar dust at midday. Baedecker was pleased that Scott felt so well. Eight months earlier they had seriously considered another hospital stay for him, but the asthma medicine had quickly begun to help, the dysentery had resolved itself after several weeks of rest, and while Baedecker had been losing weight during the months of diet and work in Arkansas, Scott had steadily put on pounds so that he no longer looked like a redheaded concentration camp survivor. Baedecker squinted at the ocean where his son was swimming with strong strokes. After a minute, Baedecker rose with a slight groan and jogged slowly down the beach to join him.
It was evening when Baedecker and Scott drove north along U.S. 1 to the Space Center. Baedecker glanced at the new developments and shopping centers along the highway and recalled the raw look of the place in the mid-sixties.
The huge Vehicle Assembly Building was visible even before they turned onto the NASA Causeway.
'Does it all look the same?' asked Baedecker. Scott had been a fanatic about visiting the Cape. He had worn the same blue KSC T-shirt through all of his sixth and seventh summers. Joan used to have to wash it at night to get it away from the boy.
'I guess so,' said Scott.
Baedecker pointed to the gigantic structure to the northeast. 'Remember when I brought you out here to watch the VAB being constructed?' Scott frowned. 'Not really. When was that?'
'Mmm. 1965,' said Baedecker. 'I was already working for NASA, but it was the summer before I was chosen for flight status with the Fifth Group of astronauts. Remember?' Scott looked at his father and grinned. 'Dad, I was one year old.' Baedecker smiled at himself. 'Come to think of it, I do remember you on my shoulders for most of that tour.'
They were stopped at two checkpoints before they reached the KSC industrial area. The spaceport, usually wide open to tour groups and the curious, had been closed up tight for the imminent Department of Defense launch. Baedecker showed the IDs and passes Tucker Wilson had provided, and they were quickly waved through.
They drove slowly past the sprawling Headquarters Building and turned off the parkway into the lot of the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building. The huge, three-story complex looked as ugly and functional as it had during Baedecker's stay there during the training and prelaunch phases of his Apollo mission. Ribbons of glass on the west side caught the last gleam of the sunset as they parked the car.
'This is sort of a big deal, isn't it?' said Scott as they walked toward the main entrance. 'Thanksgiving dinner with the astronauts and all.'
'It's not really Thanksgiving dinner,' said Baedecker. 'The members of the crew had dinner with their families earlier. This is just coffee and pie . . . sort of a traditional gathering the night before a flight.'
'Isn't it unusual for NASA to fly on a holiday like this?' asked Scott.
'Not really,' said Baedecker as they stopped to show their identification to a guard just inside the door. An Air Force aide led the way up a narrow staircase. 'Apollo 8 flew around the moon over Christmas,' Baedecker continued. 'Besides, the DoD set the date for this launch because of the satellite deployment windows.'
'And besides that,' said Scott, 'Thanksgiving is today and the launch is tomorrow.'
'Right,' said Baedecker. There were two more checkpoints before they were shown into a small waiting room outside of the crew dining quarters. Baedecker looked around at the green sofa, uncomfortable chairs, and low coffee table covered with magazines, and was pleased for some reason that the private quarters area had maintained the same late-sixties feel to it that he had known two decades earlier.
The door opened and a group of businessmen emerged from the dining room. They were guided by a young Air Force major. One of the men wearing a dark suit and carrying an attaché case stopped when he saw Baedecker. 'Dick,' he said, 'goddammit, it's true then that Rockwell got you.' Baedecker stood up and shook hands. 'Not true, Cole,' he said. 'Just stopping by for a social call. Cole, I don't know if you've met my son. Scott, this is Cole Prescott, my boss back in St. Louis.'
'We met years ago,' said Prescott as he shook hands with Scott. 'At the company picnic right after Dick started working for the company. You were about eleven, I think.'
'I remember the three-legged race,' said Scott. 'Nice to see you again, Mr. Prescott.' Prescott turned to Baedecker. 'So what have you been up to, Dick? We haven't heard from you in . . . what? Six months?'
'Seven,' said Baedecker. 'Scott and I spent last spring and summer fixing up an old cabin in Arkansas.'
'Arkansas?' said Prescott and winked at Scott. 'What the hell is in Arkansas?'
'Not much,' said Baedecker.
'Hey,' said Prescott. 'I heard tell that you were out talking to people at North American. ¿Es verdad?'
'Just talking.'
'Yeah, that's what they all say,' said Prescott. 'But look, Dick, if you haven't signed with anybody . . .' He paused and looked around. The others had left. Through the slightly opened door to the dining room came laughter and the clink of dishes. 'Cavenaugh's retiring this January, Dick.'