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it and still held. They said the auto-tint on the
helmet visor cut in fast enough to filter most of the harmful shit.
They said it was the equivalent of looking at a solar eclipse on a
hazy day, not long enough to do permanent damage. It fried the suit
good, but they insist nothing's wrong with me. Hyperventilated? An
EVA specialist? I don't think so." He nervously took a drink and
hoped I would agree.
    "So they just released you?"
    "I go back twice a day for follow-ups.
Suspended from duty until further notice. Debriefing after the good
night's sleep I'm not going to get. Screw the pills."
    He paused and gazed into his drink. He
swirled it in his right hand and then suddenly downed it in a
single slug. He hesitated and then held out the empty cup for me to
refill, which I gladly did. He got up and disappeared for a moment
into the rest room and came back stirring his mix with one finger.
He sat back down and quietly took another drink, a sip this
time.
    "I know I could have taken out the whole
team, but you know, that's not what bothers me the most. It's the
suit tear. They let me see one camera view of the whole bastard
affair. Said that was enough for now. It was enough, I'll tell you
that much. God, Adrian, you were like a cat pouncing on a helpless
bird. It was so fast they had to slow it down to keep track of what
you were doing. Imagine if you hadn't contained it?"
    "I try not to."
    "We've both rehearsed suit failures in the
simulators. It's got to be the worst. Did you know I started out as
a rock-jock like you? You're father's a flyer too, isn't he?"
    "TransOceanic, forty years seniority."
    "Forty years? How old is he?"
    "He's ninety-one come December. Has no plan
of retiring, nor are they asking him to."
    "God, that's great. How come you didn't
follow in his footsteps?"
    "Can't stand being ground-bound."
    "Ground-bound? Are you kidding? If he's
flying TransOceanic that's carrying passengers sub-orbital. How the
hell do you get ground-bound out of that?"
    "Hey, when below the umbra, what goes up
must come down."
    Frank smirked and then found himself
surprised by it. He sipped his drink and immediately became morose
again. "I was at Edwards for quite a while. We were on this project
testing a new low altitude pulse-jet engine. The thing was a bear
to fly, almost no wing to it at all, little stubby things. Big
expandable tail to keep it straight and honest. So one day this
buddy of mine, Jix was his call sign, he's bringin' the thing back
in and looses part of the heat shield. Some of the fiber lines
under the belly get melted real good. All of a sudden he's got
intermittent control surfaces. He brings it by the airfield at five
thousand and it looks like he's doin' stunts, but it's all he can
do to keep it from doing the lawn dart trick. So everybody agrees
he's got to nurse it back around and do a controlled ejection over
the field. So he dares it down to three thousand and gets as slow
as he can go and comes right over us. The canopy comes off just
fine, and the seat rockets out just beautiful. The five of us are
standin' there waitin' for the chute to pop, and it's not
happenin'.”
    “Ole Jix, he's right on the money, directly
over the runway. All the way down we've got direct eye contact with
him. He knows there isn't gonna be a chute, and we know it too, but
there's not one god-damn thing any of us can do about it. Just ride
it down with him." Frank paused and took more than a sip. "You know
what the worst part was, Adrian? Not the impact. The ride down.
Knowin' what was gonna happen and not bein' able to do anything
about it. It's the same way a bad suit makes you feel. I never want
to be a part of anybody cashin' in that way, ever."
    It was time to change the subject. "Tell me
this, Frank, what were you thinking when you were about to open
that box? It just doesn't seem like something anybody would
do."
    "Hey, I'll buy into that theory real fast.
The whole things a blur. I'd swear it wasn't me. The whole