Chapter 7: Cycle Three

The pressure chamber sits in the sub-basement under the ops floor.

It is a steel cylinder as long as a bus, painted gray, with a window the size of a dinner plate.

By eight in the morning the viewing room was crowded.

The commander stood at the glass with his aide.

Joan stood next to me, arms folded.

My father had come with Quist and three lawyers in dark suits who didn't speak.

My mother hadn't come. Kit hadn't come either.

I had not slept. All night I saw my brother's whole, unmarked hand under the loose gauze.

Kit had lied about that injury to everyone at the table, and Quist had pulled him inside before he could say why.

I said nothing about it to the room. A bandage proved nothing unless Kit said so himself.

A chamber technician set the flange into the test ring and torqued it down.

I watched every bolt.

"Parameters," the commander said.

"Thirty-five thousand feet equivalent," the technician said. "That's about fifteen thousand seven hundred psi. Three cycles, up and down."

"Run it."

A pump began to hum under our feet.

The gauge on the wall started to climb.

My father leaned against the back wall with his hands in his pockets. He looked bored.

At 10,000 psi nothing happened.

At 15,000, nothing.

The needle touched 15,700 and held.

"Cycle one," the technician said. "Pass."

The pressure fell. The ring was fine.

"Cycle two."

The pump hummed again. The needle climbed again. At the top, the technician looked at his screen, then at the commander.

"Pass."

"Told you," my father said, softly, to Quist.

Quist smiled at his shoes.

I didn't move.

A flange with a groove that shallow will hold twice. It was cut to hold twice.

It was cut to hold exactly long enough to be signed off, loaded onto a vehicle, and taken down to 30,000 feet.

"Cycle three," the commander said.

The gauge started up.

At 12,000 psi nothing changed.

At 14,000 the technician leaned toward the glass.

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