"Unstrike," Mike Glider said. He held up three fingers, and folded one down. "Now what about the--IMU?"
"Oh, we know where that is. They put it in a safe place." Cole nodded happily.
They waited while Cole continued to nod. A pained look crossed Oliver's face. "Where is it, Ron?"
Cole became suddenly wary. "A very safe place." His eyes slid left and right and he leaned forward and whispered. "It's in the military security area at Edwards AFB."
"Military security area. A safe?" Oliver asked.
"Something like that," Bob said. "We've got security containers at the University. Surplus--"
"That sounds simple enough," said Fang. "Just straightforward B amp;E and a little burglary. Harry!" he called.
Harry stuck his head in from the kitchen. "Yo."
"You know those things at Bob's university?"
"Look like file cabinets with a big combination lock," Needleton said.
"Sure," Harry said.
"Can you open one?"
"Take about half an hour if you don't mind noise.
Couple of hours if any body's listening."
Mike Glider folded down another finger. Two." "And the fuel?" Alex demanded. "Where are we going to find a half million pounds of liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen?"
They quieted down. Sherrine seemed crestfallen. Bob and Oliver, somber and thoughtful. Steve, folded into a lotus on the floor, vibrated with nervous energy. "Shit," said Fang. "That's a stopper all right."
Cole looked puzzled. "But that's the easy part," he said. "You make the fuel."
Alex strained to hear Cole through the resulting babble. The man kept talking in the same low tone of voice despite the noise around him. Finally Bruce put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.
".. hydrogenation of fats; and of course, there's the TV industry."
Silence.
"Would you mind, repeating that, Ron?" said Oliver. "We didn't get it all."
Cole squeezed up his face. "I was simply explaining why, in spite of government craziness and propaganda, there are still plants making hydrogen. The Greens may not like industry, especially the chemical industry; but hydrogen is politically correct. When you burn it, the ash is water vapor. There are things that they want to have--that they need to have. Like television. You can't make television sets without hydrogen."
"Heating, too," Oliver said. "We have hydrogen pipes in this building. It's not very pure, but it's hydrogen."
All true, Alex thought. And the more Cole talked, the saner he became, probably because in talking science he was orbiting in his home module…
"Yes, indeed," Cole said. "All you need is methane and electricity. And steam. Methane-CH4-is everywhere. Natural gas. Swamp gas. You get some when you crack petroleum or pyrolysize coal. And cow farts."
Mike's jaw dropped. "You're going to make rocket fuel from cow farts?"
"No, of course not. I only meant… methane is common. There is hydrogen in the pipelines. There will be a pipe to Phoenix."
"Wait a minute, " Alex said. "A hydrogen pipe? Liquid hydrogen?"
"No, no," Cole said. "Just hydrogen. But you compress it, and it will liquify. It is not that difficult."
"And the oxygen? LOX?"
Cole shrugged. "Liquify air, and boil off everything else. It is really very simple." He spread his hang smiled at them. "And there you have it."
In spreading his hands, Cole revealed two bright glassy marbles. Go on pointed at them. "Shto eto?" he asked.
"Hmm? Oh, my family jewels. I made them. A long time ago--carbon-12 diamonds." Cole stared at them morosely. "It was my idea, but the big companies took the idea away from me. They make good lasers, you know; but I kept these because they were beautiful."
"All right," said Alex, still not quite believing it. "There are chemical plants operating that make hydrogen--"
"They're small, too. Ten to twenty people."
"And pipe it through the desert. And the LOX you get by compressing air and letting the 02 boil off. Fine. But a half million pounds--"
Cole shook his head emphatically. "That's the total, not all of that is hydrogen. What you need is 66,500 pounds of hydrogen. It's bulky, but well, there are ways."
"And the oxygen?" Gordon asked.
"Most of the ship is oxygen," Alex said.
"All right, I bite," Fang said. "How do you liquify air?"
"Turbo expander," Cole said. "Four hundred thousand pounds of oxygen, make it on the spot."
"Where do we get a--turbo expander?" Bruce asked.
Cole shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't cared since they--since they ruined my ship. But Gary will know. Oh yes, Gary will know."
Mike Glider folded his index forger halfway. "Only half a strike left."
Alex found himself nodding, nodding. Half a strike. "Now I'm lost. A--turbo expander. What powers that?"
"It's like a jet engine," Cole said. "Very like, a jet engine. In fact, it is a jet engine, but it won't fly--"
"So it needs--"
"JP-4. Kerosene," Cole said.
"A lot of kerosene, I expect," Oliver Brown said.
Mike Glider held up one finger again. "Strike--"
"Yes, a lot," Cole said. "But not more than we have."
"What?" Bruce demanded.
Cole grinned widely. "Larry and Curly. You must meet them. Alas, I sold Moe…"
The door on the abandoned warehouse bore a stenciled sign reading Private Property--Museum of Science and Appropriate Technology. Rust speckled the metal siding; grass and weeds had punched through the cracks and edges of the concrete truck apron. The shattered windows had been boarded over and covered with graffiti boasting of long-vanished gangs. The cold wind blew off the lake and crystal patches of gray frost nestled unmelted in the shadows.
Cole bent over the padlock and worried it with a key. "This leads back into the bluff underneath the museum. It forms a subbasement where they used to bring exhibits in and out. Hardly used anymore. No sir. Hardly used."
Alex, Bob, Sherrine and Oliver stood behind him, casting occasional wary glances around the open area by the lake and at the museum.
"Ah." Cole grunted in satisfaction and the chain fell away. The doors pulled smoothly up and clicked into place with a satisfying snap. Behind them, two gleaming Peterbilt tractors reared high and proud. The headlights and grillwork had been polished to a sparkle that coruscated from the quiet sun overhead.
"There they are," Cole announced. "Larry and Curly."
Alex stepped into the warehouse. He ran his hand along the bright, cold grillwork. Each tractor was hitched to a long, silver, cylindrical tanker. The logo painted on the side read:
MILKHEIM
LOW-FAT MILK
"These will hold liquid gasses?"
Cole's head bobbed. "Twelve thousand gallons each. I got them war surplus for practically nothing. For peaches…" He laughed. "They are filled with RP-4. Enough to power the air converters. Now all you must do is get them to Thunder Ridge."
"Thunder Ridge."
"Edwards Air Force Base," Cole said. "The rocket test stand. Get them there. Gary Hudson will do the rest."
Cole approached the nearest truck--Larry? --and laid his cheek against it. "I've been waiting for this day forever." There were tears in his eyes.
"I don't get it," said Bob. "You've got the ship and you've got Gary to pilot it. You've got the backup ROMs--maybe--and know where to get the IMU. You know where to find fuel and you've got the trucks to move it. So, tell me one thing, Ron. Why didn't Phoenix fly a long time ago?"
Good question, thought Alex.
Cole pointed to Alex. "Because we were waiting for him."
"What?"