confident, actually. We have a qualified crew and having a NASA research pilot with us can only be beneficial.”
Sutcliffe thanked the media for coming and asked if anyone had any more questions. Most asked legitimate, relevant questions. A few were cynics who wanted to stir the pot a little and get reactions. Regardless, Sutcliffe, always the total professional, answered all the questions with respect. His replies never wavered and he never lost his composure, always dictating the momentum and attitude of the discussion.
After the press conference, the Fable - 1 crew congregated in the small function room at the back of the Chandelier Ballroom where refreshments had been provided.
“That went pretty well,” said Matthews.
Sutcliffe pushed open a window to allow fresh air in. Engines wailed as media vans tussled for an exit from the car park amid a maze of congestion.
“You think?” said Hennessey. “Sounds to me like they think it will fail again, if you want my opinion.”
Faraday stretched, surprised how tense she had been during the conference. “They would love nothing more than to see us fail again.”
Staring out of the window, Sutcliffe picked out his car sitting lonesome now that the car park had almost emptied. He saw Martin was napping with his forehead pressed against the glass. Outside, it continued to drizzle and the heat inside the room had put a smear of condensation on the windows. Gazing out at the gloomy day, lost in thought, he suddenly realised that everyone in the room was looking at him.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Matthews huffed. “I asked you how you thought the conference went.”
Obviously most journalists felt they were being overconfident, overambitious and very unrealistic. Nevertheless, public criticism, Sutcliffe thought, might just benefit them. Pessimism drew public attention, especially something as daring as flying a balloon to the top of the sky. In fact, the more people expected failure, the more famous the flight would become with success. The only downside was if NASA thought the expedition would tarnish the research institute with a bad name and withdrew the sponsorship money.
“Okay,” Sutcliffe replied. And that was all he said.
Chapter 7
St. Ives in Cornwall was known for its cobblestoned streets, quaint cottages and artistic traditions. Tourists flocked in their thousands to indulge in romance and adventure, sapping up clean air, spotless beaches and coastal walks, not to mention the old galleries, gardens, craft shops and exhibitions. With a population of six thousand, give or take, St. Ives was popular, but not famous. After next month’s balloon launch, however, the seaside town would be popular and famous.
The clouds had run out of rain, the storm had moved elsewhere and the F1 Mission Control Base was being baked in a glorious, tangerine - coloured sunset. Located on the cliff - top less than half a mile from St. Ives bay, the base was built to be a model of gracefully responsible design, but the building Jen Hennessey was staring at didn’t seem like a place that represented air travel whatsoever. It looked more like a cross between a fairytale palace and a waste recycling centre.
Sitting in the passenger seat of Sutcliffe’s car, Hennessey was feeling dizzy. The heaters were on full punch and the car was a stew of heat. She wound down the window and took a deep breath of air. Sutcliffe’s son, a little strange and none too graced with civility, fidgeted on the back seat, one hand yanking on the seatbelt draped over his shoulder, the other toying with a small JVC video camera. Hennessey didn’t pay much attention to him, but stared at the pointed roof and the enormous smoked windows lining the granite walls of the Mission Control Base, which was built into a steep hill. Perfectly manicured lawns surrounded the slate walkway and the entire area was fenced off from the public with security systems monitoring the joint.
In the forty five
Sutcliffe thanked the media for coming and asked if anyone had any more questions. Most asked legitimate, relevant questions. A few were cynics who wanted to stir the pot a little and get reactions. Regardless, Sutcliffe, always the total professional, answered all the questions with respect. His replies never wavered and he never lost his composure, always dictating the momentum and attitude of the discussion.
After the press conference, the Fable - 1 crew congregated in the small function room at the back of the Chandelier Ballroom where refreshments had been provided.
“That went pretty well,” said Matthews.
Sutcliffe pushed open a window to allow fresh air in. Engines wailed as media vans tussled for an exit from the car park amid a maze of congestion.
“You think?” said Hennessey. “Sounds to me like they think it will fail again, if you want my opinion.”
Faraday stretched, surprised how tense she had been during the conference. “They would love nothing more than to see us fail again.”
Staring out of the window, Sutcliffe picked out his car sitting lonesome now that the car park had almost emptied. He saw Martin was napping with his forehead pressed against the glass. Outside, it continued to drizzle and the heat inside the room had put a smear of condensation on the windows. Gazing out at the gloomy day, lost in thought, he suddenly realised that everyone in the room was looking at him.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Matthews huffed. “I asked you how you thought the conference went.”
Obviously most journalists felt they were being overconfident, overambitious and very unrealistic. Nevertheless, public criticism, Sutcliffe thought, might just benefit them. Pessimism drew public attention, especially something as daring as flying a balloon to the top of the sky. In fact, the more people expected failure, the more famous the flight would become with success. The only downside was if NASA thought the expedition would tarnish the research institute with a bad name and withdrew the sponsorship money.
“Okay,” Sutcliffe replied. And that was all he said.
Chapter 7
St. Ives in Cornwall was known for its cobblestoned streets, quaint cottages and artistic traditions. Tourists flocked in their thousands to indulge in romance and adventure, sapping up clean air, spotless beaches and coastal walks, not to mention the old galleries, gardens, craft shops and exhibitions. With a population of six thousand, give or take, St. Ives was popular, but not famous. After next month’s balloon launch, however, the seaside town would be popular and famous.
The clouds had run out of rain, the storm had moved elsewhere and the F1 Mission Control Base was being baked in a glorious, tangerine - coloured sunset. Located on the cliff - top less than half a mile from St. Ives bay, the base was built to be a model of gracefully responsible design, but the building Jen Hennessey was staring at didn’t seem like a place that represented air travel whatsoever. It looked more like a cross between a fairytale palace and a waste recycling centre.
Sitting in the passenger seat of Sutcliffe’s car, Hennessey was feeling dizzy. The heaters were on full punch and the car was a stew of heat. She wound down the window and took a deep breath of air. Sutcliffe’s son, a little strange and none too graced with civility, fidgeted on the back seat, one hand yanking on the seatbelt draped over his shoulder, the other toying with a small JVC video camera. Hennessey didn’t pay much attention to him, but stared at the pointed roof and the enormous smoked windows lining the granite walls of the Mission Control Base, which was built into a steep hill. Perfectly manicured lawns surrounded the slate walkway and the entire area was fenced off from the public with security systems monitoring the joint.
In the forty five
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