After school the next day, while briefing Mr. Montgomery, they found out how far from set they were.
Their science teacher stared at the design plots the three had done. This was the “official” version; the real one wasn’t done yet. They’d keep that one to themselves until after their satellite was up. Then they’d sell it to Newsweek or People.
Mr. Montgomery eyed them. Dave knew how the butterflies felt, pinned to boards in the ecology class. “Why not use a balloon or model airplane?” The teacher asked.
“The microwaves we’re after are absorbed by the atmosphere,” Terry jumped on that one. “We have to get above 30,000 feet. We couldn’t find a design for a model airplane that went that high.” Terry glanced at Dave, dumping the hot potato on him.
“A free floating balloon could do the job, but the winds aloft this month would blow it halfway across the country. None of us have driver’s licenses yet. Would you chase it for us?” Dave put his “kid begging” face on, all the time praying Say no. Please say no.
“Sorry boys, that’s not the way I want to spend my weekends.” The teacher went back to studying the plan, and Dave started breathing again. “You’re using a lot of reaction mass.”
“Yes, sir,” Terry swung at this one. “The normal rocket just shoots up and parachutes down. We want ours to be more like a Delta Clipper. We’ll throttle the fuel flow back and let it climb slower between 30,000 and 100,000 feet, hover a while and bring it back down on its rockets until it runs empty. That way we can get more readings, and more accurate ones. Dave’s got a public domain game version of the DC-3’s flight software.”
Dave tried to smile the way adults liked kids to smile. This rocket was going like an leer for his dealer the moment it took off. Dave would touch a star. But Mr. Montgomery couldn’t know that, not right now. “It’s a cool game, and we’ll test the rocket and the software before we launch. We have to test the engines anyway.”
“Yes.” The teacher frowned at the blueprints. “You’re replacing the rocket’s motor with four smaller ones.”
Dave again took the lead, careful to keep his face straight and his voice low. “Yes, sir. That’s Joe’s idea. His Dad is using some pretty heavy-duty Buckiposites in his race cars. Joe thinks he can make a motor that will take much higher pressures and temperature. That’s how we’ll double the height of this experiment, to nearly twenty miles.” And then some.
“Will the rocket casing stand the strain?”
“Yes, sir.” Dave dove on. If his mother knew he could lie like this with a straight face, she’d ground him ’til they balanced the federal budget. “Joe thinks the casing is way overdesigned. It will take the stress. Just in case, we’ll set up the launch crew farther back from the rocket.”
“How much fuel will you need? If it’s too much I’ll have to fill out the anti-terrorist paperwork.”
“We’ll get our own fuel.” Terry jumped in—too quickly Dave saw. Mr. Montgomery was giving the boys one of those adult stares like he could read the fine print on their souls.
Dave tried to cover. “My Dad buys hydrogen peroxide by the 55-gallon drum to clean chips. We can get kerosene at any camping store. Since we’ve got to test the motor a few times, we’ll need extra. We don’t want to tie you up.” Dave put that smile on, but not too much of it. Mr. Montgomery had to buy this part of the project.
They’d never get to orbit with the wimpy stuff the school used. But some of the funny cars Joe’s dad worked with used real jet fuel, and the boys had spent an hour working out how to distill and freeze the regular 50 percent hydrogen peroxide until they had 93 percent concentration. That would give them the bang they needed.
Mr. Montgomery nodded. “Anything that cuts down on the paperwork makes my day.” He stared at the ceiling for a long minute, then went on. “Get me a note from your folks on the fuel. Now, if you boys are going to maneuver this rocket, you’ll need to gimbal Joe’s new motors. The test bed for the original DC-X used the U-joints off an ’87 Ford Econoline. Joe, your dad ought to be able to get you some good stuff.”
Joe led the boys in a round of head nodding.
Mr. Montgomery tapped his pencil on the drawings, staring through the three of them one last time. He tossed down the pencil. “Why don’t you boys build your own rocket casing from scratch? You can still have the fuel pump and parachute from the school rocket, but all the changes you have in mind would really mess it up for the next class. Keep me informed.”
Biting his lips to hold in his grin, Dave thanked Mr. Montgomery. They wouldn’t have to break up the old rocket! Every idea they’d come up with so far looked darn suspicious.
The briefing over, the three left the school yard as fast as they could walk. They didn’t start celebrating until they turned the corner and the school was out of sight.
Dave had four weeks to do what an army of engineers and scientists took seven years to do, but he had an advantage—Dad and the latest development software and production equipment.
Dave knocked on the door of the factory and Dad let him in. The windows were barred against burglars; the garage was warm with the smell of burnt plastics and resin. Dad fixed things: computers, TVs, recorders, anything that had electrons and chips. He also manufactured replacement parts for airlines, cars and was a subcontractor for the area’s rapid transit. From the kilns and etchers here, he could make any component they gave him the CAD drawings for. Better yet, Dad could modify the old stuff, incorporating the latest advances in chips. Dave had been excited the couple of times he got to help Dad, but today was different.
Dad offered him a chair, just like he was a team member.
Dave tried not to fidget while Dad marked up the project outline of half truths and downright lies. Should I tell him? Dave glanced around at the factory’s production tooling; Dad hadn’t asked Dave when he poured his education money into the last upgrade. Grown-ups didn’t have to tell kids anything. Why should kids? This answer didn’t feel right, but it was one he could live with—for now.
Dad put down the outline. “I know a few distributors who’ll donate some off-the-shelf stuff for you.”
Dave nodded thanks as Dad turned to his computer. “Charley, let’s close all the windows and disable voice input.” Dad’s computer screen went blue. “With us talking, I don’t want to confuse Charlie. Besides, I need practice keyboarding.”
Dad didn’t look out of practice. His mouse flew over the screen as he showed how the software would design Dave’s chips, debug it and run simulations on it. “It will turn it over to the factory then, but make sure you’ve got it right. Silicon isn’t cheap.” But Dad was grinning as he said it.
Dave looked slowly from one piece of equipment to the next, taking them in, seeing them differently this time. A circuit of the garage finished, he returned to his Dad. “The program does all the work.” You’re just a button pusher! My education money is making us all into something that just turns on a machine!
“Not really.” Dad’s confident, grown-up-in-charge-here smile never wavered. “It’s like the analysis you run on your computer games. To save the princess, everyone has to be where you want them, when you want them, and not waste any time getting there. View each computer instruction as one of your adventurers. Now, is there only one way to save the princess?”
Dave shook his head. He understood games—or did he?
Dad cocked an eyebrow at him. “Right. There are many paths, and every time you optimize one adventurer, another one slows down.” Dad never wasted time on games, but he sure seemed to understand them. Dave glanced down, his eyes hunting for any place to look except Dad or machinery.