"That's not the point. A surprise. What we talked about the other day."
Bridget's interest picked up. "What we talked about? But I'll have to dress and fix my face—"
"Put on a robe and slippers. It's a warm morning. I've got it fixed with the O.D. Now, will you come on down?"
She paused. "You've convinced me."
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—"