The Chief said benignly: "H'm…. I'm gonna be in charge of the engine room, an' Haney'll be bos'n—let Joe try to take off without us!—an' that don't leave you a rating, Mike, unless you're willin' to be just plain crew!"
Slowly Sally turned her face away from Joe and looked up.
Then they all saw it. A telescope, maybe, would have shown it as the thing they'd worked on and fought for. But it didn't look like that to the naked eye. It was just a tiny speck of incandescence gliding with grave deliberation across the sky. It was a sliver of sunlight, moving as they watched.
There were a good many millions of people watching it, just then, as it floated aloft in emptiness. To some it meant peace and hope and confidence of a serene old age and a life worth living for their children and their children's children. To some it was a fascinating technical achievement. To a few it meant that if wars had ended, and turmoil was no longer the norm of life on earth, this thing would be their destruction. But it meant something to everybody in the world. To the people who had been unable to do anything to help it except to pray for it, perhaps it meant most of all.
Joe said quietly: "We'll be going up there to visit it. All of us."
He realized that Sally's hand was tightly clasped in his. She said: "Me too, Joe?"
"Some day," said Joe, "you too."
He stood up to watch more closely. Sally stood beside him. The others came to look. They made a group on the lawn, as people were grouped everywhere in all the world to gaze up at it.
The Space Platform, a tiny sliver of sunshine, an infinitesimal speck of golden light, moved sedately across the deepening blue toward the east. Toward the night.