Finishing. What's so hard about finishing? Why is it that the closer I get to my goal the harder it is to make progress? Who made this pattern? I want to finish this, I need to finish this -- WE need to finish it... But. Why the hell is finishing so terrifying? When was the first time this happened? Goddam, they're counting on me, they are all counting on me.

He looked down at the scar that ran across the backs of the fingers of his left hand.

The science fair. Standing there in the front of the gym with Linda Applegate and Stuart fucking Santry. Holding the certificate and the red ribbon, second place, with a sick smile on your face and a rolling emptiness in your stomach while the cameras clicked and the principal cooed. Second place, you're supposed to be happy, you're supposed to be proud. While she smirked and Stuart wiggled, his shirt tail hanging out. It was even in the paper, that picture, and underneath the picture your name: second place. Who do you talk to, who can you explain the pain of coming in second to? Nobody would understand it, nobody would help you, show you the door out of the labyrinth of shame you built around that moment, around that red ribbon. You looked at that ribbon and it mean you were not quite good enough, almost good enough, but not quite..

Focus. I'm sick of running away when I'm standing on the threshold of success. Sick of it. I'm not a prisoner of fear. I have ideas. I work things out. The calculations are good, they check out. The bird will fly. She'll fly and she'll fly fast. She's beautiful. She's designed smart and she's built smart. We can handle the payloads. There's redundancy. The bugs are performing better then expected, we won't need as many of them. The gas mix is perfect, even more bouyant then hydrogen, and totally intert, totally non-flammable. But the superstructure needs work, the outriggers are to flexible and...

And Memo. It's really a simple question after all. Do I want to let Memo down?

Echo swung the Pontiac onto the exit ramp, made a left over the bridge and another left onto the northbound entrance. He slowed down at the merge to let a tractor-trailer pass, then pulled out behind it and then immediately into the passing lane, his foot pressing down on the accelerator. He reached for the phone, and opening it he wiggled a couple buttons.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were hard.



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