minutes it had taken to drive from the Moorland Links Hotel in Plymouth to the F1 Mission Control Base in St. Ives, Sutcliffe had learnt a lot about Jen Hennessey. She had never smoked, drank little and didn’t like to pollute her body with anything detrimental to her health. She lived alone at her parents’ house in Illinois but rarely spent any time there because of her commitments to NASA. She was unmarried, still single and career - driven. Orphaned, she said. Happy, she lied.
“It looks more like Disneyland,” Hennessey commented.
“You’re not the first to say that,” Sutcliffe said, laughing softly. “Come on, I’ll show you inside.”
She nodded to Sutcliffe, who turned to speak to his son on the back seat. “Martin, wait here, we won’t be long.”
Martin didn’t take his eyes off his camera and acknowledged with a single nod.
As they neared the small building, Hennessey observed the environment and was reasonably impressed with the location. They passed through a metal gate and arrived at the building entrance. A frosted glass door slid open, obeying Sutcliffe’s electronic key-card. A second sliding door revealed a small foyer. When it opened, Hennessey noted that, as peculiarly unique as the building’s exterior was, its interior was equally as extraordinary. The main foyer was elliptical with grey carpets and black leather sofas pressed up against the wall, very sleek. At a high desk sat the receptionist. A message had been left for Sutcliffe, she mentioned, holding up a post - it - note with a phone number he should call and a name he didn’t know. “Andy…? Andy…?”
“The plumber?” she reminded. “You asked him to come and check the leak in the men’s toilet yesterday, remember?”
“Yes, right, thanks. Any other messages?”
“No, none.”
Hennessey learnt that the small building had been built in the shape of a T, though its exterior shape didn’t seem to reveal that. The narrow corridor passed doors on either side and at the end was the Flight Control Room. Inside, Sutcliffe saw Mission Commander, Mike Townsend, sitting alone at a computer. When he saw them enter the room, Townsend wheeled his chair back from his terminal, peeled off his headset and walked over. “You must be the American everyone’s been talking so much about?”
Townsend took Hennessey’s hand in his and softly kissed it. He seemed down - to - earth and she could tell by his firm grasp that he was no stranger to hard manual work. His medium - length hair was stuck down with spray and his moustache, like his hair, had been meticulously clipped and shaped.
“Jen Hennessey, and I hope it’s all been good.”
“Naturally. I’ll be supervising all the operations and decisions regarding safety and flight conduct. I guess the role here is much like NASA Mission Control in Houston, only on a much smaller scale. In fact, we have only got four employees working here, myself included. We also have a team of skilled technicians who are responsible for setting up the balloon and retrieving it when it returns. Welcome to F1 Mission Control Base.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s the wife?” Sutcliffe asked.
“Bending the ear, as usual.”
“And how’s the little one?”
“Bending the other ear. She has one healthy set of lungs. And we both know who she gets that from.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, mate.”
Townsend laughed and put his fists up into a boxing posture. “Don’t listen to this one, Jen. He’s a menace to society.”
Back in the corridor, Sutcliffe took Hennessey to the beginning of a deep, spiral staircase that led to the ground floor beneath the Flight Control Room. The graceful curves of the staircase drew the eye downward.
“What’s down there?” asked Hennessey.
“That’s the workshop. It’s where we store the balloon. I’ll show you.”
Located on the ground level, etched into the hill, the workshop seemed like any other with its open plan, open rafters and
“It looks more like Disneyland,” Hennessey commented.
“You’re not the first to say that,” Sutcliffe said, laughing softly. “Come on, I’ll show you inside.”
She nodded to Sutcliffe, who turned to speak to his son on the back seat. “Martin, wait here, we won’t be long.”
Martin didn’t take his eyes off his camera and acknowledged with a single nod.
As they neared the small building, Hennessey observed the environment and was reasonably impressed with the location. They passed through a metal gate and arrived at the building entrance. A frosted glass door slid open, obeying Sutcliffe’s electronic key-card. A second sliding door revealed a small foyer. When it opened, Hennessey noted that, as peculiarly unique as the building’s exterior was, its interior was equally as extraordinary. The main foyer was elliptical with grey carpets and black leather sofas pressed up against the wall, very sleek. At a high desk sat the receptionist. A message had been left for Sutcliffe, she mentioned, holding up a post - it - note with a phone number he should call and a name he didn’t know. “Andy…? Andy…?”
“The plumber?” she reminded. “You asked him to come and check the leak in the men’s toilet yesterday, remember?”
“Yes, right, thanks. Any other messages?”
“No, none.”
Hennessey learnt that the small building had been built in the shape of a T, though its exterior shape didn’t seem to reveal that. The narrow corridor passed doors on either side and at the end was the Flight Control Room. Inside, Sutcliffe saw Mission Commander, Mike Townsend, sitting alone at a computer. When he saw them enter the room, Townsend wheeled his chair back from his terminal, peeled off his headset and walked over. “You must be the American everyone’s been talking so much about?”
Townsend took Hennessey’s hand in his and softly kissed it. He seemed down - to - earth and she could tell by his firm grasp that he was no stranger to hard manual work. His medium - length hair was stuck down with spray and his moustache, like his hair, had been meticulously clipped and shaped.
“Jen Hennessey, and I hope it’s all been good.”
“Naturally. I’ll be supervising all the operations and decisions regarding safety and flight conduct. I guess the role here is much like NASA Mission Control in Houston, only on a much smaller scale. In fact, we have only got four employees working here, myself included. We also have a team of skilled technicians who are responsible for setting up the balloon and retrieving it when it returns. Welcome to F1 Mission Control Base.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s the wife?” Sutcliffe asked.
“Bending the ear, as usual.”
“And how’s the little one?”
“Bending the other ear. She has one healthy set of lungs. And we both know who she gets that from.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, mate.”
Townsend laughed and put his fists up into a boxing posture. “Don’t listen to this one, Jen. He’s a menace to society.”
Back in the corridor, Sutcliffe took Hennessey to the beginning of a deep, spiral staircase that led to the ground floor beneath the Flight Control Room. The graceful curves of the staircase drew the eye downward.
“What’s down there?” asked Hennessey.
“That’s the workshop. It’s where we store the balloon. I’ll show you.”
Located on the ground level, etched into the hill, the workshop seemed like any other with its open plan, open rafters and
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