While the compressor huffed away on the tanks, he checked the door and window seals to make sure they hadn’t gotten scuffed in the five months since he’d installed them. Had it really been that long? He supposed it was. He’d poured all his time and money into fixing up the truck for space, but they hadn’t actually gone anywhere since their first trip. He couldn’t have said why not; they’d survived the experience well enough, and they’d had tons of fun in the process. There’d been a few harrowing moments, but no more than happened on any four-wheeling trip. Of course the government had done their best to discourage more trips, but that wouldn’t have stopped them if they’d really wanted to do it. They just hadn’t gone again.

Maybe he’d been afraid of scratching up the truck. Parachute landings didn’t give a guy a whole lot of control over where he came down.

It didn’t matter. They were going now. He whistled softly while he made his pre-flight check, stopping occasionally to look up at the starry sky.

3

They left first thing in the morning. Trent drove them out of town a ways, then found a spot way off the road and between a bunch of rocks where their launch crater wouldn’t get in anybody’s way. They got out and put on their Ziptite suits—human-shaped plastic bags that would theoretically hold air long enough for them to get back to the ground if something went wrong—then climbed back into the cab, keeping their helmets rolled down around their necks so they wouldn’t waste the internal air. The suits weren’t any more legal in the U.S.