"Of course, of course," Eve confirmed, looking at James as he placed a hand on the boy's knee to silence him. "Do you have breakfast with us?" She asked James.
"I'm sorry, but I'm too late, I don't even have time to accompany Harry to the Scout Camp."
"Don't worry, honey, I've already called the bus. I'll wait for them to come and get him."
"Are you serious?"
"Sure!"
"Then I run, I'll stop and buy something on the street," he replied, taking the car keys from the glove box on the shelf near the door. "Hi Professor, play nice," he told Harry as he left.
"James, wait!" Eve called him as he closed the door behind him, he stepped back and leaned his head toward her.
"What happened to you tonight?" He asked, startling him. He doubted that she had already discovered everything, including kissing Helen, blushed and ran with his mind to find a justification.
"You seem destroyed ..." Eve added instead, in an accomplice tone, winking at him, and he felt like being reborn.
"If I have to be honest, I didn't sleep a wink ... then you will wait for the bus?" He said after taking a breath.
"Sure dear, bye."
"See you later," said James.
"Of course dear, bye... the world is probably going crazy," James repeated to himself several times as he drove to work.
Cape Canaveral, Florida, local time almost nine in the morning. The stage equipped with seats and microphones, intended to welcome astronauts for greetings and ritual interviews, had been ready for a couple of days. The small stage packed with people had been set up next to the runway so that in the last meters of the landing maneuver the shuttle would slowly pull out until it stops right in front of the spectators. The rescue vehicles, newly polished and arranged in a herringbone formation on the opposite side to the grandstand, awaited the arrival of the Space Shuttle to make the sirens sound like a party. In a small hangar just a few meters from the runway, a buffet had been prepared in honor of the astronauts, understandably fed up with eating just dehydrated single-serving dishes and eager to return tasting real food. For the hundreds of curious people who came to enjoy the show, with their nose stuck to the fence of J.F.K. Space Center, witnessing the return of a Shuttle was always a very exciting event. It was not as interesting as the takeoff, when the shuttle is pointing straight up against the sky to pierce it in a deafening din while everything around seems to collapse, but to see the shuttle landing and come out normal people who had just taken a nice walk in space had anyway its charm. And this time the enthusiasts were driven by one more reason: the official closure of the Shuttle Space Program had taken place with the return of Atlantis on June 20, 2011, and that unscheduled mission a few years later would probably have been really the last one. Although this kind of operation has to be considered pure routine, a certain apprehension has been circulating for some days among the technicians of the Johnson Space Center in Houston; some of them feared that the long period of inactivity had rusted them. They would have finally relaxed at the exact moment in which the astronauts, after spending the last twenty minutes inside the Orbiter to turn off all the systems onboard, would put their feet on the asphalt of the runway. Only then the mission really could have ended satisfactorily. Inside the Control Tower, the ground staff was following with their maximum concentration the returning maneuver of the shuttle in the atmosphere, which represented the most critical moment of the whole mission. The Reaction Control System had fulfilled its duty perfectly: entering the Ionosphere it had given the correct inclination to the Atlantis and immediately afterward there was the awaited and feared Ionization Blackout band. Those twelve minutes of radio silence were always the most terrible because that inability to communicate, even if planned, kept everyone in suspense. Everything was proceeding as planned, but the heat of the moment still reigned supreme, the fronts that dripped sweat due to stress were more than one. After all, the experience of the Columbia a few years before taught that a very small unforeseen event, like a microscopic crack in the outer covering of the shuttle traveling at a speed of twenty-eight thousand kilometers per hour, would have been able to destroy years of work and take away their heroes'life in an instant. The countdown was just finished, a few moments after the Atlantis had left the ionized belt it was framed by the very high-definition cameras installed on the satellite which, through the big screen, showed its images to the public while flying over the Atlantic Ocean like a great white angel.
"Houston ... Houston ... here is Atlantis."
"Atlantis, we are in visual contact and we hear you loud and clear. How's it going?" Said Connor, the communications clerk.
"All according to schedule. The instrumentation on board is fully functional and the control system has just returned my manual command."
"What about fuel?"
"There is enough to make a nice ride."
"Good, but be sure not to delay because in Florida we are waiting for you with open arms. Out."
"Houston, wait ... Lieutenant Garrett has a problem," Major Salas, the shuttle pilot, and commander announced in a serious voice. Hearing those words, the ground Coordinator jumped on his chair. His name was Rupert Lee, but everyone called him simply 'the Chief".
"What kind of problem?" He asked worried as he ran his hand through his reddish curls.
"He claims to be reassured that he will find a couple of roast chickens waiting for him as we land," the Major informed him, and for a moment Lee was tempted to send him to hell for the fright he had given him.
"Tell Lieutenant Garrett that he is getting older, last time he asked me to get him a couple of girls," he replied instead, smiling with a sigh of relief; his collaborators giggled.
"Yeah, I told him exactly the same thing, but he still claims he would be able to have them both in less than four minutes, so we bet a few dollars. You know how it is, Christmas holidays are approaching and some extra money in the wallet to make gifts is always be needed... couldn't you talk to those of J.F.K. to see if we can get those chickens?"
"I don't know, over there it's nine in the morning and the buffet has already been set up ... anyway, it's fine, I promise I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks, boss. Speaking of Christmas, where will you spend it?"
"Well, if aside to roast chickens you don't create other problems, I might even be able to finish all the paperwork in time and go back to Richmond to pass it with my wife and my son."
"Well, then I'll try to do my best with this old grinder. See you later by videoconference when we are on the runway, close."
"Nick, can you think about chickens?" We have little time and you are a true magician in these things, "Lee suggested to one of his assistants.
"All right, Chief," he answered, picking up the phone.
"Even this time America can be proud of us," the Chief declared finally relaxed. He untied the knot of the scarf with stars and stripes that he wore around his neck like a cowboy and used it to dab his cheeks and chin. Then he bent down to look for something under the desk.
"So it's serious!" Exclaimed Truman, the Radar Man, seeing that the Chief had taken from under the table a Moet et Chandon Magnum. Lee began to arrange the crystal flutes on his desk reproducing the shape of the shuttle.
"Every time I sweat like a sauna, tonight I'll have to drink five or six beers to replenish all the mineral salts I've lost," Rupert Lee announced, wiping his neck again with a scarf. "Who's coming to keep me company?"
All those present raised their hands in participation except the Communications Officer, who remained with his eyes glued to the screen as if he had not even heard.
"Hey Connor, what's wrong with you? Have you become teetotaler or deaf?" "Chief ... it would seem that something is not going well."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Connor explained, "the video signal comes and goes, it would seem that the shuttle is like ... like fading."
"Fading? What the hell does it mean "the Shuttle is fading"?" Rupert asked running to sit beside him.
"Wait a minute ... here, can you see?" Said Connor clicking on the mouse zooming the image.
"What the hell, you're right!" Rupert admitted. "What is it?" He then asked, putting his hand back into his red curls to scratch his head perplexedly.
"On the spot, I don't know, it could be a defect in the cameras or a magnetic storm or a train of electromagnetic charge that they carried from the ionized belt. In any case, there is something that disturbs the transmission. What do you think about it?"
"I have no idea, you are the expert! Can't you be more precise?"
"I don't know what to say, the monitor has been doing this since Atlantis entered the Triangle area," Connor informed him. "It looked up, lost speed, and then ..."
"Don't say bullshit! Won't you believe those silly superstitions on the Bermuda Triangle?"
"Of course not, Chief, but I would still try to contact them to see if they are okay."
"All right," Rupert said, wiping his neck again with nervous gestures, then he sighed and turned on the microphone.
"Houston to Atlantis ... do you receive us?"
"Strong and clear, Chief ... are there any problems?" Major Salas answered promptly.
"No, no problem, it was just to inform you we are working on those chickens," Rupert Lee lied to not unnecessarily alarm the Shuttle crew. "We look forward to meeting you, make yourself beautiful for being on TV. Out."
