Having left the bar, the friends stepped into the cool Washington night. The street greeted them with a sharp smell of wet asphalt and the distant hum of the city. John, as always, preferred practicality—his SUV, dark and angular, stood nearby, in the shadow of streetlights, whose yellow rays shattered in puddles. Lewis nodded, feeling the cold wind creeping under his jacket:
"You're still so pedantic in everything. I bet a hundred that inside you've got order, like on a space shuttle."
"Of course. Unlike you, I don't haul half my house's stuff in the car," John smirked, his voice slightly muffled by the noise of a passing car.
They climbed inside, and the doors slammed with a dull thud. Lewis looked around—the interior was impeccable: leather seats smelled of cleaning agent, the dashboard gleamed, and the first-aid kit lay strictly in its place, like an exhibit in a museum. A faint smell of air freshener lingered in the air, hinting at John's practical nature.
John Kane was a man of logic. A NASA engineer, 36 years old, with a sturdy build and an analytical mind, he moved through life like through a blueprint. His fingers, accustomed to precise movements, could assemble anything from makeshift materials—from a radio receiver to a complex mechanism. But sometimes his rationality, like a steel framework, prevented him from catching subtle human emotions.
Lewis, sitting beside him, felt this difference: his own world was chaotic, like a desert wind.
Lewis Harris, a 38-year-old war journalist, was the complete opposite. Hardened by war, lean and wiry, he was accustomed to trusting intuition, not calculations. His face, weathered by the sun and dust of hot zones, bore a couple of old scars, and his eyes held fatigue, hidden behind an ironic smile. He could survive in chaos and negotiate with anyone, but trusted few. His fingers, gripping the seatbelt, still carried the smell of sand and gunpowder.
"Something you're too serious today," Lewis noted, fastening his seatbelt, "for two friends who just had a good time in a bar." His voice sounded slightly mocking, but it carried care. He leaned back in the seat, feeling the leather creak under his weight.
"Just already thinking about the trip's details. Need to prepare equipment, study the route," John replied, starting the engine. The deep hum of the engine rolled through the cabin, drowning out the distant city noise. His hands confidently settled on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road, where the headlights caught the wet asphalt from the darkness.
"You, as always, control everything. And I—prefer improvisation. Balance, buddy, there should be balance in life," Lewis grinned, looking out the side window, where the blurred silhouettes of skyscrapers and neon signs flashed by.
The car pulled away, and the Washington night stayed behind, dissolving in the sound of tires and the glints of streetlights.
When they arrived at John's house, Lewis immediately felt the contrast between its strict, almost sterile atmosphere and the chaos of his own mobile camp of a home.
The house towered on a hill, its dark windows reflecting the city lights like mirrors. It was not just a home—a true forge where John created the most advanced and high-tech instruments for NASA.
High ceilings, sleek lines of modern interior, without unnecessary pomp, created a sense of order. The spacious living room with floor-to-ceiling windows opened a view of twinkling Washington, but the air carried a faint smell of coffee and electronics, hinting at a working atmosphere.
Lewis noticed how every item—from the sofa to the bookshelves—was thought out, as if part of an engineering project designed for maximum productivity.
The true pride of John, however, was hidden below, in the workshop. Descending a narrow metal staircase, Lewis felt a sharp change: the air became heavy, saturated with the smell of machine oil, metal, and fresh paint. The basement walls were lined with shelves, where tools, gleaming wrenches, and parts, sorted by size, lay neatly. In the center of the room stood a massive table, cluttered with blueprints, sketches, and models, exuding ambition. On the walls hung rocket schematics—complex, covered with formulas and lines—of a project John had worked on for years. His cherished dream—to create a completely new engine capable of carrying people to Mars. Lewis ran his finger along the table's edge, feeling the cold of the metal.
"You seriously planned to build this?" Lewis said in surprise, examining parts that looked like fragments of a spaceship, covered with a thin layer of dust.
"Yes," John replied, approaching one of the tables and pointing to an engine model, whose curves gleamed in the lamp's light. "This is my project. I believe that one day man will be on Mars. And I want to be part of it."
"And you're not afraid to drop everything and go to Mars? For the first people who get there, it's a dangerous journey. I'd even say a one-way ticket."
"No, I'm not afraid. After Mary's death, nothing holds me here anymore."
Lewis nodded understandingly, feeling that John's voice carried not just confidence, but passion. Especially since he knew his friend didn't waste time on empty dreams—every part, every blueprint was a step toward the goal. The workshop was quiet, only the faint hum of a fan broke the silence, and the smell of welding and metal reminded of work that never stopped.
"It's impressive," Lewis said, peering at the engine's details, whose polished surfaces reflected the light. "I'd want to be there when you go to Mars."
"You'll be the first to cover this event in the press," John smiled, returning to his work. His fingers deftly touched the blueprint, as if continuing a conversation with the machine he was creating. Lewis watched his friend, feeling that in this workshop, among tools and schematics, John was in his element, and outside, in the night, the road to the unknown awaited them.