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  Middle Eastern politics are of no interest to Kip and besides, he hadn’t bonded with Tariq al Ashad.

  Tommy and Anna, however, are another story.

  “Three empty seats,” Kip replies. “I see the problem. So, when can I reschedule?”

  “Well…that’s why we wanted to talk to you, Kip. This trip is already unique because we have a small commercial payload scheduled for tomorrow…essentially an industrial, scientific experiment we’re being well paid for…and we’ve made the decision to launch with or without passengers. So, if you’re still up for it, you’ll have the craft and your pilot, Bill Campbell, all to yourself—which means you’ll get much more window time.”

  His hesitation, if any, is measured in nanoseconds. “Hell, yes, I’m up for it! I was afraid you were going to…what’s that word you use?”

  “Scrub it,” Jack Railey replies. “Comes from the World War II use of grease boards for scheduling. When you canceled a mission back then, you literally scrubbed its listing off the grease board.”

  “I’m ready, at any rate,” Kip says. “I don’t want to reschedule.”

  DiFazio gets to his feet with a tired smile.

  “Great! That helps us, too, you know, not having to displace a paying passenger later.” A worried look crosses DiFazio’s face as he realizes the implications of the phrase “paying passenger” in front of a contest winner. “I apologize for that reference, Kip. You’re an honored guest, and I didn’t mean…”

  “No problem. I’m glad it works out. This is, after all, a business.”

  “I appreciate that,” Richard replies, his concerned look softening as he nods and extends his hand. “Okay, then. Someone will be banging on your door at zero three hundred. I hope you’ll have a wonderful, memorable flight, Kip. We’re all very glad you won the contest, and I’ve got to tell you on behalf of all of our folks that you’ve been a delight to have with us dur-ing training.” He starts to turn away, then turns back. “Kip, I agree completely with Diana Ross, by the way, that given your enthusiasm for private space flight, we need to talk later about involving you in some of our advertising.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  He walks back to the plush ASA guest quarters and his assigned suite, his mind alternating between Tommy and Anna Altavilla and the flight. He wonders whether he should try to call Anna at the hospital in L.A., and decides against it for now. Despite their bonding during training, the economic and social divide between them is immense—though the Altavillas never paid heed to it.

  DiFazio’s mention of ASA’s publicity director has sparked a warm flash, and in the privacy of his room, Diana Ross’s face returns to his thoughts—especially the memory of the first time he saw her.

  He’d been a nonswimmer in deep water at a big ASA reception in New York, and she’d been the lifeguard—though he hadn’t known it at first. It was early evening with a cold rain and sharp wind whipping the umbrellas from the hands of the locals, and the cab ride from his hotel had been wet and fast, his suit pants still damp from getting in and out of the downpour. The ballroom at the Waldorf was full of elegant women that evening—polished, poised females with a serenity about their beauty that made him feel like a stammering sophomore. One such young woman in particular had caught his curiosity as she glided effortlessly between conversations, greeting friends, her smile warm, her persona inviting. Her long, black hair framed a flawless, oval face, her eyes amazingly blue and unforgettably large, and he’d been shocked when she turned and smiled at him. Even across the room he’d averted his eyes for a moment from this long-legged beauty, but when he looked back he let himself notice an abundance of cleavage framed by an expensive, gold-trimmed gown and matching heels—the trappings of a confident woman.

  Suddenly, she headed across the room straight for him, which was confusing, and he’d sidled closer to an enormous floral arrangement as if to hide while a flurry of prohibited thoughts flitted through his head.

  “Why, Mr. Dawson,” she’d said with an endearing smile, “is that you in the potted plant?”

  There was no way to know she was an officer of ASA assigned to mentor him through the preflight publicity process, and his discovering that had been a small letdown.

  “I’m Diana Ross, ASA’s director of publicity, and, yes, I’ve heard every possible joke about my name, and no, I don’t sing.”

  “Glad to meet you, Diana.”

  She’d immediately turned to the business of asking him to sit for several TV interviews.

  “So, the thing is, I’m in trouble here and I need your help. This soiree…this reception…is my idea. Oh, of course the primary purpose was to welcome you as the winner, but this party is really to get the media excited again so they can get the rest of the country excited. But…all we’ve been able to draw are two local TV camera crews and one reporter. Pathetic. I could generate that with a bake sale in Des Moines, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She shrugs. “We didn’t expect private space flight to become quite so routine quite so soon. But here’s the thing. I really need to have you participate in a couple of on-camera interviews with the two crews who were kind enough to straggle in. It’ll be painless, I promise. Just be yourself and tell them what it was like to win, and how you feel about going into space.” She cocks her head, her eyes on his. “So, how do you feel?”

  “I’m excited,” he’d replied. But Sharon’s angst was uppermost in his mind, muting his reaction.

  “Excited, huh? Could have fooled me.”

  Kip remembered laughing in mild embarrassment before returning his gaze to her. It felt slightly disturbing, as if she could read too much, and there was an instant attraction beyond the physical, especially when he’d felt her businesslike facade falter as well. “They’ll ask me that? If I’m excited?” Kip had countered.

  “Sorry?” she’d replied, distracted for a moment as she studied his eyes. Her recovery took a few telling seconds.

  “Oh. Yes. They’ll ask you that and more. Brace for silly questions.” She adopted a stylized voice deeper than her own, a smarmy tone coming through. “So, Mr. Dawson, how does it feel to be going into outer space?”

  “Outer…”

  “Too many local reporters don’t know there’s a difference between low Earth orbit and so-called ‘outer space.’ ” She’d laughed. “Of course, we fly in low Earth orbit.”

  “I know that,” he’d replied. “Even my cat knows the difference between outer space and a low Earth orbit.”

  “But, you see, they often don’t. Tomorrow morning, however,” she’d said with pride, “you’re going to be on Good Morning America, and those folks know all about this stuff.”

  His jaw had dropped. There hadn’t been any mention of national TV. Just the reception.

  “Isn’t that great?” she’d continued, searching for an approving response. “My one big success in this campaign.”

  But his pained, almost panicked expression had been undisguised. Sharon Dawson never missed GMA and made no secret of being in love with the host, and she would see Kip talking about the very thing that had sent her into orbit.

  He’d tried to find a way out. “Diana, I don’t think you want me on national TV. I’m kind of a private person.”

  “Nonsense. Oh, by the way,” she’d said without missing a beat, “I was sorry to hear that your wife couldn’t be with us tonight. Forgive my prying, but, is she worried about your flight?”

  “You might say that,” Kip had responded, irritated that she’d dragged it out of him. But there it was, dammit.

  “Anything I can help with, in terms of providing information, making her feel better?”

  He’d looked away for a moment, trying not to send the ungracious message that he’d like to run, but suddenly wishing she’d leave him alone. There was a slight New York lilt in her voice. Were all New Yorkers this brutally direct? He’d forced his eyes back to hers before she got any closer to the truth.

>   “Diana, I’d prefer to stay in the background. I’d rather not do that show.”

  “Please don’t make me beg! I might have to buy you dinner, and I’m already over budget.”

  The thrill he’d felt at that moment had nothing to do with national television and it surprised him, making him blush. It had been the radical thought of dining with her. But he’d covered his embarrassment—and his interest—with a laugh.

  Minutes later Diana had guided him to an anteroom where she effortlessly greeted a young woman reporter while a bored cameraman with a pigtail waited to pin on a microphone and position Kip just so. At last the cameraman indicated to the reporter that she could fire the first question.

  “So, Mr. Dawson,” she’d asked. “How does it feel to be going into outer space?”

  Kip’s thoughts return to the ASA suite, his eyes on the clock. It’s almost 11 P.M. but even though he’s tired, sleeping is going to be difficult. For some reason his mind has locked on Diana and his conversations with her in the weeks after New York, as well as the dinner she flew him to in her own airplane—a delightful evening for just the two of them that felt dangerously close to a date. It had ended with a proper handshake back in Mojave, but not before they’d discovered how much they had in common, and he’d been thrilled to hear her say his enthusiasm for what ASA was doing was so infectious, she was thinking of making him their “poster boy.” The publicity, he thought, didn’t matter to him as much as the chance to work with her. If there had been a mutual attraction in New York, the dinner had endorsed it, and each subsequent verbal spat with Sharon in the weeks that followed breathed more life into the reality that there were other women out there who might actually like him just as he was.

  Kip sighs as he places his cell phone by the bedstand and scans the small screen, surprised to find a message symbol blinking. He checks the call list and feels an instant loss at finding a Colorado Springs area code and his oldest child’s phone number at the Air Force Academy.

  Jerrod almost never calls, and to miss one of those rare moments hurts. Especially now. His son has always wanted to fly, and perhaps be an astronaut. But never in his wildest thoughts has Kip expected to beat Jerrod into space.

  He retrieves the voice mail, expecting words of support. But Jerrod’s message is angry and hurt, and it hits Kip like an unexpected haymaker.

  Dad, I’m having to talk to your goddamned voice mail again. Julie called in tears tonight, Dad, and said you were going ahead with that spaceflight and that Sharon says you’re going to die, and that you haven’t paid any attention to their worries. They’re all torn up down there. My sister says you aren’t listening to anyone. I’m tired of you thinking about no one but you, Dad, and…if anything happens to you, you’ll be leaving an awful mess behind. I don’t want my sister crying! Call me before you take off. I’m really mad at you! Julie doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. Neither do the twins.

  Kip hears the catch in his son’s voice, but the words are clear enough. He knows there’s been hardly a moment since his first wife’s death that Jerrod hasn’t been mad at him. And that never changes. Nor does it make the hurt easier to bear.

  He punches up his son’s phone at the academy and listens to it ring through to voice mail, but he’s too stunned to leave anything but a cursory message.

  Kip folds his cell phone and puts it on the nightstand, taking the time to be deliberate so he won’t have to react too quickly to the renewed doubts Jerrod’s words have shoved back in his heart. He feels the slide toward his old habits, the need to yank out his phone again and rip-snort through however many numbers and command posts are necessary to get his son live on the other end.

  Laughter reaches him from somewhere down the hall. More happy customers, he figures, scheduled to fly sometime later and anticipating their incredibly expensive flight to space. Tommy and Anna Altavilla and Tariq, a Saudi royal, each paid a half million dollars. Yet the Altavillas in particular welcomed their contest-winning freeloader as a full partner, and he’ll miss sharing this with them.

  He should lie down, he thinks. He’s running out of night.

  Fifty feet down the hallway, Diana Ross stands and debates with herself yet again. She knows Kip Dawson has been back from the meeting less than fifteen minutes, but she’s also aware he has less than four hours to sleep.

  Yet for some reason, the thought of his going to orbit alone with Bill Campbell is unsettling, and she can’t think of a single reason why—other than the unusual nature of having only one passenger aboard. Maybe the gear collapse on ASA’s other spacecraft several weeks back is making her nervous.

  She poises her hand to knock and finds herself hesitating. Is this business or is this personal? She’s not sure. Maybe there’s some of both: Protecting her “investment” in him as a potential spokesman, and at the same time, maybe scratching an itch?

  Not that he’s under her skin or anything. She smiles at the idea. If she wanted companionship or marriage, she wouldn’t be thinking about a married guy from Tucson.

  Yet there’s something about him.

  She knocks gently and waits in vain for an answer before knocking again, unwilling to put much energy into it lest she wake any adjacent occupants—all of whom she’s met.

  Minutes elapse before he opens the door just inches, and she smiles to see him leaning at an angle so she can’t see what state of dress he’s in.

  “Kip! Sorry to bother you so late…”

  “Diana! Hello. This is a pleasant surprise…I think. Is anything wrong?”

  “No, no. I just…wanted to wish you a good flight, and maybe give you some pointers on what to expect.” How lame! she thinks, knowing the ground school has already covered everything she could possibly tell him and far more.

  He opens the door wider and motions her in and she enters, amused that he’s holding a death grip on his bathrobe. He carefully reties it before looking up at her and then closing the door awkwardly. She heads for the couch and sits.

  “I was just about ready to dive into bed…I apologize for the bathrobe.”

  “No problem at all! A swimsuit would cover a lot less.” She feels off balance, as if someone of greater maturity was going to burst through the door and demand an explanation as to why she’s invaded this married customer’s bedroom in the middle of the night before his big flight.

  She sees the sudden look of doubt trending toward minor panic, the expression transmitting that he’s attracted to her and he’s getting worried about having her all alone in the same room when here he is naked beneath his bathrobe. The message is so clear it might as well be crawling across a marquee, and she has to suppress a laugh.

  “What I want to urge you to do is think about the fantastic sights you’re going to see through the eyes of a poet, which I think you may be.”

  “I’ve never written poetry, Diana,” he says, looking like he’s failed to prepare for a test.

  “No, I don’t mean as in writing poetry, but as in looking at things as if through the eyes of someone who can appreciate the ethereal, the beautiful aspects, the emotional impact, and then put it into words.”

  “That’s a tall order for a mere salesmen of pills.”

  “But you can do it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good.”

  Their eyes are locked for a few intimate moments of pregnant silence and she sees the sparkle of panic mixed with interest again as he suddenly looks away, as if embarrassed.

  She gets to her feet suddenly. “Well, I’ve got to go and let you get…ah…”

  “Sleep. Yeah, I’m pretty tired.”

  She looks at his eyes again, a smoky aquamarine color. She realizes for the first time that she’s holding his arm to steady either herself or him, she’s not sure which.

  He smiles.

  She sees the smile at close range and cocks her head unconsciously, forcing herself to release his arm as if it had suddenly become dangerously hot.

  “Well…I’d
better go,” she says.

  “I appreciate your coming by.”

  “And thanks for letting me in.” She pulls herself away from his eyes and opens the door, hesitating as she turns.

  “See ya. Have a ball up there tomorrow.”

  And she’s back in the hallway, walking with careful dignity in her heels until she’s through the outer door.

  There’s a bench just outside and she sits on it for a moment, wondering what just happened. That moment of eye contact had transmitted something between them, something exhilarating if indefinable, and she gets back to her feet with a smile she can’t completely explain, wholly unaware that she’s left behind a deeply confused male, who’s also smiling inexplicably.

  Chapter 3

  MOJAVE INTERNATIONAL AEROSPACE PORT, MOJAVE, CALIFORNIA,

  MAY 17, 6:40 A.M. PACIFIC

  Kip knows it isn’t so, but the interior of the spaceship named Intrepid appears to have shrunk, and it scares him.

  He sat in this very seat just last week in the hangar, with Anna Altavilla on his left and Tommy Altavilla and Tariq in the back row—the seating order a result of drawing straws. It was bigger then, the interior. He’d swear to it. But on the day of his actual flight he was too excited to even think that it was going to feel like being crammed into an oil drum with windows.

  Can this thing really fly?

  His thought is accompanied by a nervous laugh, but he’s having serious doubts. It seems as flimsy as a toy, moving in all directions at once whenever either of them moves an arm.

  He tries scooting his rear around in the seat he’s been carefully strapped to, but real sideways movement is all but impossible, and with Bill Campbell—his pilot/astronaut companion—already belted into the command seat in front of him, Kip can barely even lean forward.