Lunar Descent Read Free Page B

the serial number again, slowly reading its designation as if to refresh his memory. He opened the hatch and looked inside—more crates, apparently containing more of the same stuff as in the first canister—but this time the flashlight and the knife didn’t make an appearance. The Dork wasn’t quite so meticulous in inspecting this particular Spam-can. Instead, he shut the hatch, and even made the uncharacteristic effort to lock down the latches himself this time.
    Eugene stood up, briefly moved the lightpen across his datapad, made a grunt which was lost in the din of the hangar bay, and turned to move past Eddie. “It’s okay,” he said briefly—was there a vaguely guilty expression on his face?—then went tromping down the ladder again.
    Eddie carefully restrained the smile he felt creeping across his face. Bingo! He looked down at the Spam-can the Dork had just “inspected,” and committed its serial number to memory; S31CO18 … S31CO18 … S31CO18 … That’s the ticket . Then he followed Eugene off the cherry picker.
    â€œMake sure you get that memo to me,” the Dork said to Eddie at the bottom of the ladder, tapping the edge of his data-pad against Eddie’s chest. Fast Eddie nodded his head, just the way the Dork himself usually nodded, and Eugene made a brief display of looking at his watch. “I’ll be in my office doing some paperwork,” he added. “Call me on the phone if you need me for anything.” Then off he went, waddling out of the open hangar door to the prefab office complex next to the SPC, undoubtedly to consume some double-fudge cookies and to catch a few winks on company time. Yeah , Eddie thought as he watched the Dork walk away into the humid night. Sure thing, Gene …
    Once the supervisor had disappeared, Fast Eddie walked outside and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his vest pocket. Rubbing the end of one against the bottom of the pack, he lit up, took a deep drag, and leaned back against the hangar door. Several hundred yards away, the mammoth white cube of the Vehicle Assembly Building gleamed under spotlights; a couple of miles distant from the VAB, a mobile launch platform was slowly carrying a Grumman HLV-121 Big Dummy to its launch pad in the distance. Closer by, a couple of pad rats lounged next to the big diesel tow-tractor and ground-support trucks, waiting for their cue from the Bay Four crew to haul the Jesco von Puttkamer over to the VAB for mating with its reusable flyback booster. By the end of next week, good old Jesse would be in orbit, making another milk run to low orbit.
    Fast Eddie smoked and listened to the nightbirds in the surrounding wetlands. He loved this time of the morning, the serene cool hours before first light and the beginning of another scorching, runamok day at the Cape. God , he thought, please let me stay on the graveyard shift till they retire me, because this way I don’t have to deal with too many anal retentives like the Dork .
    And speaking of His Royal Dorkiness … Eddie checked his watch and saw that fifteen minutes had gone by since Gene had left the OPC. He’s asleep by now , Eddie decided as he crushed his cigarette out beneath his shoe and walked back into the hangar. Even if he’d left his computer terminal on, he wouldn’t notice the little bitty change about to be made to the Puttkamer ’s cargo manifest.
    His own office was a small, messy cubicle located in the rear of the hangar bay. On top of the stand-up desk was an oil-stained Digital terminal with a plastic drinking bird taped to the top of the monitor. Fast Eddie tossed aside the dogeared copy of Penthouse someone had left open on the keyboard and punched up the records for the Puttkamer . It took just a few seconds for him to locate the Humpback’s cargo manifest, and there it was: cargo canister S31CO18, allegedly containing MISC. CONSMB ., its destination listed as OLY. VIA