But there were drawbacks. The electronics would be so complex there was no way an astronaut could land the thing in the case of computer failure. And all those curved surfaces would take a lot of buffeting from the air; the biconic would need heavy heat shielding over most of its surface.

The biconic looked to Gershon like a hybrid of Langley’s traditional love of aircraft and JPL’s expertise in robotics and computer control, all mixed up together with Rockwell’s immense appetite for fat and ambitious development budgets.

Looking at the presentation, Gershon felt an odd itch in the palm of his hands and his feet.

Lee was grinning at him. “I can see that look in your eye. You’d like to fly that thing down through the Martian air, maybe do a couple of banks over Olympus Mons.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Lee waved his hand. “I’m not mocking you. But you need to understand that you’re looking at a twenty-year development effort there, minimum, in my judgment. Christ, nobody’s flown a biconic ever. Not even a fucking wooden mock-up. Unless the Russians are up to something, which I doubt.

“And then you’re talking about building a biconic to land on Mars. What do we know about the atmosphere of Mars? Buddy, if you want to see your grandson flying down onto all that red dust, then you put your money on a biconic. But you and I sure ain’t going to see it…”

The three presentations took them right through the day and on into the evening. Then, in a long final session, the meeting argued out the merits of the comparative designs: possible crew sizes, surface stay capabilities, gross weight in Earth orbit, required delta-vee, aerodynamic characteristics like lift-over-drag ratio. It all got bogged down in picky detail, and it became clear to Gershon after a while that all sides were more intent on filibustering than reaching any kind of decision.

Gershon stared at Dutch Kindelberger’s mural of the Mustang and wondered what it had been like to fly.

As the meeting broke up, around 9 P.M., the delegates began to make plans to rendezvous in various bars.

JK Lee approached Gershon. “You’re looking kind of strained.”

Gershon grinned at him. “I like the idea of a couple of pitchers of cold beer. But not in some shitty bar with these corporate suits, frankly.”

“Yeah. Listen. You want to get out of here? It’s a clear night. We could take a drive, maybe up toward Edwards.”

Edwards Air Force Base. Up on the high desert. “Let’s go.”

They got out of the Brickyard. Lee pulled his little black T-bird out of the parking lot, and they stopped to pick up a couple of six-packs. Then Lee headed north, out of the city.