[ November snow crunches beneath worn boots, and Alfons wishes he could shove his hands, occupied with the transportation of a large crate containing rocket parts, deeper into his pockets. Fraying gloves only do so much good; he makes a mental note to invest in a new pair as soon as he lands some spare cash. -- If he lands some spare cash, perhaps. A rather significant if. And it's ifs like that that bring him to the middle of nowhere, (just-outside-of) Munich, at eight o'clock sharp and under glaring, brutal winter sun. -- Well, it isn't just the monetary if; that isn't a fair statement. Pure scientific interest would bring him to a rocket test field when the temperature is approximately colder-than-the-snow-feathers-that-fall-from-Frau-Holle's-pillows, Celsius; perhaps that's a fault of character-- or a fault of priorities. But it's important that this test is done as soon as possible, and clear, no-more-snow-in-the-forecast days have been rare this winter. ]

Holding up alright, Edward? [ He asks with a sidelong glance. ] It's not too much farther. The launch pad should be set up and everything already; the club was out here yesterday and left it for us.