“You mean it, don’t you?” she whispered. “I’m all right if I keep my mouth shut and don’t make a fuss. I’m—”
He shrugged, let go of her arm, picked up a newspaper and opened it. She stood looking at the back of the paper a moment, rubbing her arm.
“I’m sorry, Stace,” she whispered.
“Then be good, will you?” he said absently. She brought him coffee. He folded the paper and put it where he could read.
“Will I see you, after?” she asked.
“You might. I don’t know yet.”
She watched him for a time and then went away. She wasn’t in sight when he paid the check and left. He went to his locker and put on white coveralls, walked through the passageway into the hangar where the XP-181 sat, a long, evil, silvery, gleaming thing with a hungry look about her scoops.
The men working on her were laughing. They hadn’t seen Barnett.
“Tell me — so I can laugh, too, boys,” he said gently. The laughter stopped at once. He looked up on the wing. “Come down here, Jessup.”
The lanky man swung himself down onto the concrete. There was a smudge of grease across his cheek. Jessup was a civilian.
“How far has she been checked?”
“Eighty percent, Major,” Jessup drawled.
“Hydraulic gear?”
“Took special care on that, Major.”
“Then check it again.”
Jessup flushed. “I just told you I checked it, Major.”
“Not with me looking over your shoulder, you didn’t. And just for luck I want the fluid all pumped out, strained and replaced.”
“Hell’s bells, Major! I can’t...”
“I’m perfectly willing to tell the General that I won’t attempt to fly it unless it’s checked according to my instructions, Jessup. Any questions?”
Jessup looked down into the Major’s cold eyes for long moments. Then his shoulders slumped. “I’ll get to it,” he said.
“You’ll get to it right now,” Barnett said quietly.
At five minutes of two Barnett rode in the jeep out to where the ship stood waiting. He was clad in the bulky pressure suit. The press was waiting. Washington brass stood around. As Barnett was helped up into the cockpit the last thing he heard before the canopy came down was one of the generals explaining — “Major Stacey Barnett. The best we’ve got.”
He fastened his connections for heat and air, checked oxygen, radio, mike position, note pad. He worked the controls. This was his small world. He fitted into it the way a small dark animal will fit into its winter burrow.
At three minutes past two, three minutes behind schedule, there was an indescribable sound. Part roar, part scream, part whistle. It was clearly audible over a circle with a five mile radius.
They stood and they watched. All of them watched the incredible silver dot climbing on its twin flames. General Balch watched with his lips sucked hard against his teeth. Jessup watched, gently thudding a wrench against his thigh. Lieutenant Palmer watched without expression. Betty stood out in the sunlight, her fists hard against her breast. The sergeant at the gate watched, looked away to spit, found the climbing mote of silver and watched some more. Laura stood in the front yard, her hand shading empty eyes. The boy stood in the driveway, ten feet from his mother.
He had looked where she pointed, and seeing it, he made a little sound in his throat.
Everyone who watched had a look of waiting. Quiet waiting.
And then the small boy, suddenly, said, “Ah!” It is the sound that children make all over the world when the rocket, reaching apex, bursts with a hard white light.
He grinned excitedly at his mother. She had not moved, except to fold down the sunshield hand so that now it covered her eyes.