Whenever they were granted leave from Edwards, most of the test pilots high-tailed it to Los Angeles, where they spent their government checks in the dimly lit bars that bordered Koreatown. They were all on a quest for companionship, and the lucky ones would find it in the ready arms of a 2 a.m. goddess, who might not look so beguiling the morning after.
Dwight Holloway went in the opposite direction. Packing six jerry cans of water, a sleeping bag and provisions from the base exchange into a Rambler station wagon, he zoomed off into the Mojave Desert, a desolation angel in search of his destiny.
The shimmering ribbon of asphalt took him past the gnarly knots of Joshua trees into the bleached expanse of the desert basin. This was the realm of ever-circling vultures, riding high on the thermals, keeping a sharp eye out for desiccated carrion, or better yet, fresh road kill.
Thirty-six miles past the middle of nowhere, something told him to turn into a scenic by-pass, and his intuition was rewarded by a jaw-dropping vista, a technicolor tableau that to the eyes of a seeker, revealed the profound and timeless mysteries of the West.
He parked the car and scrambled up a rocky ledge to take it all in. As he gazed into the distance, volcanic peaks formed eons ago stood like random chess pieces, ready for the gods to make their next move. The air around him pulsed in the late afternoon heat.
“No need to go any further,” he thought to himself.
Wrapping a bedsheet around his head like a Bedouin, he eased into the lotus position and slipped into a contemplative state, that middle ground between wakefulness and sleep, where all things are revealed.
Losing track of time, and his mind reaching a point of perfect stillness, he was rewarded with a vision of creation itself:
The Eternal One grabbed a handful of celestial M&Ms from his treasure trove of Big Bang goo, rattled his wrist like a seasoned craps player, and shot them across the black velvet expanse of space.
And each one of those candied spheres was in fact a galaxy of pure radiant light, populating the infinite void with the bursting brilliance of a billion exploding suns.
Very few before him had ever witnessed this act of cosmic nonchalance, and they either went mad, or religions were founded in their names. And now that he too possessed the secret knowledge of the universe, it was impossible to keep to himself. He had to spread the word far and wide.
All mankind needed to experience the unspeakable joy of the ever-present now. “Enlightenment must be shared!” He leaped down from the ledge, hopped in the Rambler and roared back to base.
Hanging around the hangar, chewing on a toothpick and reading an Argosy magazine, Dana “Red” Rollins cast a quizzical eye on a dusty station wagon that came to a screeching halt at the end of the tarmac.
Red was senior pilot in the Flight Test Group. He was a wartime ace, logged a zillion miles and flew everything that either had a propeller or a jet nozzle. He’d seen it all and then some.
But this took the cake. He watched as Dwight Holloway, one of those quiet types who kept to himself, bounded out of the car and let loose a manic whoop that echoed in the distance. If that wasn’t enough, Dwight spotted Red sitting by the fuel drums and broke into a sprint, running straight toward him like a man possessed.
“Red!” he panted, “Red, I know the answer!” Out of breath and with a beatific grin, Holloway went on. “I’ve seen the sublime. I’ve been to the furthest reaches. And I can show you how to get there!”
Red took stock of his fellow pilot’s crazed comments, and figured they deserved a response. So he spat out his toothpick and gave one.
“Dwight, you dipshit. You ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ new. I feel that way every time I climb into an X-15.”
