Читать книгу Space - Roger Reid - Страница 9

Angie Warrensburg was waiting at the Huntsville airport to pick up my dad. She saw him before he saw her and blindsided him with a hug and a noisy kiss on the cheek. Dad’s face flushed red.

“Angie, I . . . I . . . I . . .” he stammered as he nodded toward me.

Angie Warrensburg followed his nod, and at the sight of me she released my dad.

“Jason?” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you this year.”

“When he heard we were coming to Huntsville, home of the rocket that put man on the moon, he begged to come along,” said my dad.

His face turned red again. He was stretching the truth, and he knew I knew it.

I joined right in. “I saw it when we were making our approach to the airport,” I said. “I was looking out the window of the plane.”

“Actually,” said Angie Warrensburg, “what you saw was a replica. They’ve got it standing up at the U.S. Space and Rocket Center not far from here.”

“I thought they had a real Saturn V,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “but it’s so big they can’t stand it up. The real deal is in the Davidson Center for Space Exploration at the Space and Rocket Center.”

Angie Warrensburg was a tall, thin woman with long, straight, dark black hair. Her eyes were a sparkling green. Nothing unusual about any of that except Angie Warrensburg was African-American. Her skin was a light cinnamon. Lighter, I thought, than last year. Evidence of a woman who spends more of her time under the night sky than the day sky. I might have considered Angie Warrensburg good-looking if not for one thing: she was old enough to be my mother.

“Jason, I have something for you,” she said.

She was wearing a navy blue pants suit, and she had a triangular pin on her left lapel. Along the base of the triangle was the word ARES. She removed the pin and handed it to me.

“You know what Ares is?” she asked me.

“It’s the new rocket that will carry us back to the moon,” I replied.

“I work on the Ares Project at Marshall Space Flight Center. I have more pins and some posters I was going to send back with your dad for you and your sister.”

“Thank you,” I said as I clipped the pin to my shirt pocket.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Okay, are you both ready to go? Do you have any checked luggage?”

“No, just the carry-on,” said my dad.

“No, just the carry-on,” I said. “And my shiny new iPod.”

Dad gave me a smirk, and we all headed to the airport parking lot.

“I thought you might bring one of your telescopes,” Angie Warrensburg said.

“I figured we would have all the telescopes we could use up on the mountain at the observatory,” said my dad.

“Well,” she said, “I thought we might need more room than what we’ll need for just a couple of carry-on bags and a, what did you call it, Jason? A shiny new iPod? I borrowed Stephen’s van.”

“Stephen’s driving?!” I almost shouted. Didn’t mean to; did it anyway. I’m sure Angie Warrensburg heard the disbelief in my voice.

“Oh, believe it,” she said. “You know, Stephen’s almost seventeen now. He’s come a long, long way since you saw him last year.”

When we got to the parking lot I saw how Stephen A. Warrensburg could come—and go—a long, long way since I saw him last year. The van was a full-sized Ford Econoline, midnight blue with gray trim and dark tinted windows. As we approached, Angie Warrensburg clicked a remote control, and the side door slid open revealing a platform that could extend and lower to the ground.

The interior of the van was not much smaller than my bedroom back home. The ceiling was raised. At the back, there was a plush black leather bench seat that would hold three people. Up front were two black captain’s chairs. Secured to the wall opposite the sliding door was a folded wheelchair. I figured it must be a spare since Stephen Warrensburg wasn’t in it.

“Watch this,” said Angie Warrensburg.

She clicked another button on the remote, and the driver’s side captain’s chair swung around toward the middle of the van.

“With the remote control,” she said, “Stephen can raise himself into the van, swing his driver’s seat around, scoot into it, and pivot back into position at the steering wheel. Frankly, with all the hand controls on the steering wheel, this thing’s hard for me to handle.”

She chuckled to herself and said, “Stephen was a little testy about me borrowing his van. Let’s not tell him that you two only had a couple of carry-on bags.”

“And a new iPod,” said my dad. “Where is Stephen now?”

“Home,” said Stephen’s mom. “We probably won’t see much of him this week.”

I smiled at my dad. He frowned at me.

Sweet, I thought. A week with my new iPod and no Stephen A. Warrensburg. This would almost make up for the week I had to spend with the guy last year.