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Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not, knows no release 
From little things.Knows not the livid loneliness of fear Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear
The sound of wings.
How can Life grant us boon of living, compensate |
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-- Amelia Earhart, 1927 appeared in Survey magazine July 1, 1928 p. 60 |
"Sixty-five miles altitude and you’re looking good, Defiant."
"Roger, Ground Base." The static didn’t disguise the southern drawl. "This is one hot airplane."
"Not much air left at that altitude, Defiant. Seventy miles."
The director of NSEA stood near the back of the crowded control room that was Ground Base. Her fingernails dug holes in her palms. She had nothing to do at this point, except wish she were flying the rocket plane herself.
"Seventy-five miles." The atmosphere had no clear boundary. Their goal for this mission was an even one hundred miles altitude. At that point, the question would be academic. They would be in space.
There was an unusually loud burst of static from the loudspeaker. The single word, "control," cut through the noise, then the speaker settled to a steady hiss. Simultaneously, the radar man raised his voice. "We’ve lost the trace."
"Engine temperature trace spiked, then zeroed out."
"Fuel pressure’s gone crazy, there’s no reading."
"Still no radar trace."
"We’ve lost him."
The director pushed her way outside and looked up, straining her eyes for something she knew she’d never be able to see. The harsh blue Mojave sky was empty. Inside, tightly controlled voices confirmed one after another that all trace of the Defiant had been lost. A loudspeaker on the outside of the small building echoed the hissing static that was all the radio was receiving now. She listened to the empty radio until someone inside the building shut it off. Her eyes searched the sky again, knowing someplace, miles above, a brief star had blossomed. But its light was lost in the brilliance of the desert sky.
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