They crossed the San Andreas Fault line. "Lucky so far," Miller said. "We've been expecting The Big One for years…"

"They said at Minicon that the Ice would definitely trigger it," Steve said. "Guess that would close the highway for good."

Palmdale was half-deserted. They passed a stand of dead trees and grapevines. "Can't say I disagree with the Greens on that one," Steve said. "Sucking water out of Sacramento to grow Christmas trees and grapes in the desert never did make sense."

"It would if you had enough electricity to make the fresh water," C.C. Miller said. "But, hell, that's science fiction."

They drove through Mojave, past the faded signs proudly announcing Phoenix and Voyager. Now Mojave was a small road town, as it had once been. They turned east.

A sign told them it was twenty-five miles to the turnoff to the Thunder Ridge Air Force Museum.

There had once been a fence and guard post at the North Entrance to Edwards AFB, but the guardhouse was boarded up, and the fence had been knocked down by tumbleweeds piling against it. There had been some maintenance, though. The blacktop road up the ridge from Highway 58 had potholes, but Steve didn't think it was much worse than 58 itself, and 58 still had traffic, if you could call a truck every five minutes traffic. The view across the Mojave Desert to the north was spectacular. So was the Rogers Dry Lake bed to the west. Where the spaceships used to land. A million people camped out on the desert to watch the first shuttle landing…

The museum stood at the top of a ridge: several concrete block buildings, a blockhouse, a large concrete pad, and big cylindrical storage tanks. The security shack at the main gate to the facility was empty, but the gate was open. They drove on up to the largest building, a huge structure. Most of the windows were boarded up, but not all, and there was a light inside one office.

Gary Hudson was tall and thin, graying a bit. He wore a silver-tan shirt and a desert hat, and looked a bit like the old films of Indiana Jones when he wasn't carrying a bullwhip and pistol. He came out of the office and watched as C.C. and Steve got out of their car.

"Museum's only open Friday and Saturday," he said. "Sorry, it's a long trip, maybe I can show you a little anyway." He waved toward a big corrugated aluminum structure. "The bird's in that hangar."

"We'd love to see it," Steve said. "Thanks."

Hudson led the way over in silence. The wind whistled off the Mojave Desert and howled around them, rattling the corrugated metal of the hangar building. They went in through the small, people door set in the enormous hangar door. It was almost as loud inside as out, but it was a relief to be out of the wind.

It was gloomy inside. Hudson gave them a moment to let their eyes adjust. The roof was eighty feet or more above them, held up by a network of girders that looked needlessly complicated just to hold up a roof.

Phoenix stood in the center of the enormous room. It looked like a giant ice cream cone, sixty feet high, standing on its big end. At the slightly rounded base it was half as big across as it was high. It stood alone, with no scaffolding around it.

Hudson threw a switch, and banks of spotlights came on.

The nose was rounded. Holes a foot and a half across ringed the base: not one big rocket motor, but a couple of dozen little ones. There was a small door, high up. The hull was grimy enough to need hosing down, but it didn't seem to have been cut in half or anything. The damn thing even had windows.

Steve stared up at it. Beside him C.C. said, "Your big mistake was, rockets are supposed to be phallic symbols."

Hudson nodded. "Wrong shape. Too short, too. The tailfin on a 747 stood taller than Phoenix."

"Yeah, oh, well, the shuttle wasn't any better--"

Normally Steve would have joined in. Somehow he didn't have the heart. There had been scaffolding; it had been wheeled into shadow to display the beast better. Like the last Saturn, laid out horizontally so the tourists could see it better.

"--Saturn, too. What kind of a phallic symbol is it that comes apart during launch?"

"Yeah, but it did get there, Gary."

Pause. "Yes. Well, Phoenix hasn't been well maintained, as you can see," Hudson said. "She'll never fly again." He looked closely at Steve. "I've seen you before. You came with a tour about two years ago."

Mews nodded. "You must not get many people here."

"Not many black people," Hudson said. "And you cried then, too."

"Oh."

"Can I show you anything else?"

"Yes. What I'd like to see is outside," Mews said. He led the way away from the building, away from where Phoenix stood under the tin-roofed hangar. Away from the fuel tanks. Off past the parking lot.

Hudson frowned but followed as Steve went out to an empty area. "Safe to talk here?" Steve asked.

Hudson nodded. "Safe everywhere. No bugs here, if there ever were any. Things deteriorate, and nobody cares about a dead bird anyway. She'll never fly again. Talk about what?"

"She sure looks dead." Steve sighed. "But I've got a package for you. Wade Curtis says to tell you it's a Doherty Project."

Gary Hudson's face went quite slack. He shied back a bit from the small parcel Mews pulled from his jacket pocket. "Doherty Project."

"Absolutely."

Hudson took the package and opened it. Inside was a half-pint bottle of clear liquid. "Moonbeams?"

"Seawater," Steve said "And we took that shipping tag off a compressed air cylinder. It has a poem written on it. It's to be pinned to the ground with a knife."

Hudson stared out across the desert. "For Mare Imbrium," he said slowly. "Yeah. All right, you're real. At least you sure come from Curtis. Like a ghost after all these years. Now what's up?"

"Angels down. You heard about it."

"Sure. So?"

"We rescued them."

"Where? Where are they?"

Mews pointed east. "About ten miles that way. The Astroburger stand, at Cramer's Four Corners. Waiting for you to say it's all clear. They've got two tank trucks of jet fuel, and the ROMs that Cole was keeping for you."

Gary Hudson stared at him. "But--you mean--"

Hope you've got your bags packed," Steve said. "It's time."

The motorcycle came up an hour later. Harry and Jenny got off and stretched elaborately. "Hello, Gary."

"Hello, Harry. OK, you're real, too. Are there really Angels out there-"

"If the chili ortega Astroburgers didn't kill 'em," Harry said. He looked around the facility. "Can we work alone here?"

"Until Friday," Gary said. "And I can close the gate then, if there's good reason."

Harry had a small radio, the kind that used to be sold in pairs as children's toys. He extended the antenna. "Gabriel, this is Rover. All clear." He listened for a second and grinned. "OK. Now, do you have a beer? It's been days. I mean literally."

The tanker trucks wound slowly up the hill. Hudson watched with binoculars. "They look full," he said.

"They are full," Harry said. "One diesel fuel, one JP-4. Enough to make the hydrogen and LOX--"

"For a bird that will never fly," Hudson said.

"Oh, bullshit," Harry said. "You haven't been saying that so long you believe it, have you?"

"Harry--"

Harry shrugged. "Okay, but you're scaring the kids. Look at Steve. He's turning white."

"I am not."

"Get that man a mirror!"

"Harry, there's no launching pad, nothing."

"Sure," Harry said. "Gary, one thing, you better let the Angels in on this right away. When they finally set eyes on Cole's Titan, they were ready for self-immolation."