Free Forecast by Chris Keith

the smell of motor oil and creosote strong in the air. It was full of complex tools, balloon spare parts and tons of polyethylene material. The main doors ran on state - of - the - art electric rollers that went upwards in curving metal tracks.
    “So, what do you think so far?”
    Whatever she had been expecting, the atmosphere at the F1 Mission Control Base was eminently civilised. Opinions contrasting, her first impression that it was too modern and a little eccentric for her taste; all glass, angles and fancy architecture that didn’t appear to fit at all with its function. Otherwise, the location, organisation, and preparedness all met with her approval. “It probably takes a bit of getting used to.” She looked at an enormous trailer with a tarpaulin dressed over it, a V - shaped tow bar poking out. “Is the gondola beneath that?”
    “Yes. On launch day, it will be towed by truck out of the workshop and set up on the cliff where the envelope will be injected with helium.”
    Nailed to the wall above the balloon trailer, Hennessey spotted the Fable - 1 logo, the same one she’d seen at the conference on the projector screen. “What does Fable - 1 stand for?”
    “First Aeronautic Balloon Launch Expedition, that’s the name we gave to the balloon.”
    “Hmmm, interesting. Just one thing concerns me though,” she said, turning to face Sutcliffe. “The press talked a lot this afternoon about your past failures.”
    “They always do.”
    “Right. So where do we stand this year?”
    “Well, there were some deficiencies found in the balloon when we did tests in February, but they have all been rectified. We’re still waiting for the helium we ordered weeks ago from an independent supplier, but we’ll have that before the launch. The only thing that will delay or prevent the flight is bad weather and forecasters are predicting a hot summer, so we should be alright. Why don’t I show you the White Room, if that doesn’t impress you, nothing will.”
    In the far corner of the workshop, they came to a large elevator with a keypad embedded in the metal panel. Sutcliffe stuck in a code and watched the doors pull apart. The bottom half of the elevator featured zinc-coated steel with baked enamel, whereas the top half dazzled with shiny mirrors and Hennessey observed the lines under her tired eyes in the reflection. Under the spell of jetlag, her mind was trying to put her body to sleep.
    The elevator descended a single level thirty feet beneath the workshop. When the doors opened, they were in a small lobby facing a large, steel door with a thick handle. It opened a foreboding, unlit room. Sutcliffe flicked a switch and fluorescent lights sputtered into life. The room, longer than it was wide, was the size of a squash court with white tiled flooring, a white ceiling and brick walls that were unpainted. A stepladder was set up over two cans of white paint.
    “As you can see, the room is still being redecorated. It should be done by launch day, if the decorator gets his arse in gear. Feel free to have a look around.”
    The White Room was no ordinary room, but there was nothing extraordinary about it either. No electronic gadgets, the furniture sparse and the tone of decoration bland. A place for changing, for discussing strategy, for privacy and for preparation, much like a sports changing room with its polished, wooden benches bordering the wall on the left and the wall at the back. There were two toilets annexed to the wall on the right. The ceiling was vaulted, the walls a prison of thick cinderblock and there were no windows, making the room impregnable. In the far corner was a large utility cupboard stocked with forty pressurised and capped oxygen tanks on racks. The cupboard was climate - controlled to prevent the tanks from over -heating. An enormous glass display cabinet pushed against the wall stored six Russian spacesuits.
    “Very impressive. You know how to make an impact on a girl.”
    “Tell that to