In a few minutes Grant heard her slippers shuffling over the concrete.
She arrived in a brilliant blue nylon robe, with white fluffy slippers
and traces of a lighter blue nightgown underneath. The hangar brightness
brought a frown to her eyes, which she shielded with a hand cupped to
her brow. A creature as entrancing as that, Grant decided, should now
recite prose poetry in contralto tones to make his ideal complete.
"Well?" she croaked, a sleepy frog in her throat. "So I'm here."
The last mechanic was picking up his tools and was about ready to leave.
Otherwise, they were alone, except for the guard at the hangar entrance.
"Up on the platform," said Grant, unlocking the canopy of UNR-12. He
busied himself adjusting the guiding tension.
He heard the slippers, shuffling and gritting, climb the loading device
and stop next to him. He heard the gasp as she saw the pilot
compartment's freshly built-in TV transmitter and lens. When he felt the
pull on his arm, he chose to notice her.
"Thanks, Grant. I thought for a while--"
"It's ready for tomorrow if you want it," Grant mentioned casually.
Bridget's fists clenched and her eyes brightened. "Wow," she observed.
"Then you've got a pilot?"