"Yep. But the dry run doesn't start until ten this morning. That gives us plenty of time to get there, look around, and shove off before Mac and Pancho show up." "Suppose they get there early?" Rick asked. "They probably will. We won't hang around, though. According to the control board in the vehicle shop their truck isn't supposed to be ready until eight, which is an hour and a half from now." Rick thought that was cutting it fine, but he made no further comment. Both boys had checked the map again, and knew the route to follow. Scotty drove through the base and onto the access road that led to the firing areas. In a short time they had a clear view of Orion waiting on its pad, project personnel swarming over the gantry crane as they performed a variety of last-day chores. The sight filled Rick with excitement. To-morrow he would see the big rocket go up. "Pretty," Scotty said. Rick nodded. Orion was a beautiful sight. Its lines were clean, and its paint job was colorful, mixing white with high-visibility colors to allow greater ease of visual tracking. "Blockhouse ahead," Scotty pointed out. It was the first time either of them had seen the blockhouse, the control point from which the rockets were fired. It was within a mile of the concrete firing pads, close enough to be in great danger from wild rockets that had gone out of control. For that reason it was made of heavily reinforced concrete, several feet thick. It could take a direct hit from even the biggest rockets without harm to the personnel inside. Then the firing area was passed and the jeep sped along next to the miles-long black, oiled path of the airstrip. Soon the strip was behind, then the level floor of the dry lake bed became rough terrain and the jeep began to climb toward the foothills. "Isn't there a guard post this way?" Rick asked. "Should be." There was, a few miles beyond, as the jeep mounted the foothills and went through a pass. The guard inspected their badges, then waved them on. They were outside of the base area now. The dirt road led them across a valley and up a gradual slope to another pass through the mountains. This time, as they emerged, Rick pointed to a flat-topped mountain directly ahead. "That's a mesa," he declared. "Suppose it's the right one?" Scotty squinted against the glare. "Probably. I don't see any others on the horizon." "What are we going to do when we get there?" Rick asked. Scotty waved a hand. "Look, and hope there's something to see." "Okay. Let it go. We'll wait and see." Rick fell silent, watching the desert. It was odd, he thought, that most people thought of deserts in terms of sand. It was a fact that some deserts were sandy, but this one was composed of hard-packed earth and stones in which plants struggled for survival. It was more like smooth clay. Then, as the desert rose from smooth plain to mountains, the ground became simply broken rock, sparsely dotted with creosote bush and cholla.