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the sergeant shook a disapproving head.why do they do it? blamed if id ever go up in one of them thingsnot for millions, i wouldnt. bein a national eros all right but itaint much good to you if youre all in little bits so small thatnobody can find em and it aint no good if you go the waydrivers did, poor devil.i dont think curtance will do that, the other shook his head. hesa great man, and this gloria mundi of his is the greatest ship yet.he ought to do it.suppose it blows up? asked the sergeant.the small man smiled. we shant know much about that, i think.the sergeant moved uneasily. but it cant urt us ere, can it? lookat the distance.but the distance is only to keep us out of the way of theexhausts. if the gloria mundi should blow up well, remembersimpson at chicago; his rocket was only half the size of this.for a few silent moments the sergeant remembered simpsonuncomfortably.but what do they want to do it for? he inquired again,plaintively.the other shrugged his shoulders. it seems not so much, that theywant to as that they must, i think. something seems to drive themon and on wheteher they want it or not.the small circular door high up in the rockets side shut with adecisive thud. the few favoured pressmen who had been allowedupon the small staging beside it clattered down the wooden stepsand joined their less privileged fellows on the ground. almostbefore the last of them was clear a squad of workmen wastipping over staging and steps together to load them across alorry. the movie vans and the journalists cars began to jolt overthe grass towards the press enclosure. not far behind themfollowed the trucks carrying the last of the workmen. the gloriamundi, glowing in the rays of the sinking sun, was left sheer andsolitary.barnes, of the daily photo, looked back at her with resentment.no appeal, he grumbled. no womans angle. thats the troubleabout this job. damn it all, its a wifes duty to show up at a timelike this and to bring the kid. the public wants to see pictures ofthe final embrace its got a right to. instead of that, his wife sitsat home and watches it all over the radio. can you beat it? its notfair on us nor on the public. if i were him, id damn well see thatmy wifeoh, shut up, said his neighbour. what the hell do your people runan art department for if it isnt. to do a bit of montage at times likethis. you have a look at our picture of the last farewelltomorrow. its good. nearly brought tears to my eyes when i firstsaw it last week.the cars ran into the enclosure. their freight disembarked andmade for the bar. once more the loudspeakers burst out withcurty, the king of the clouds. the minute hands of thousands ofwatches, passed the figure twelve and began to loiter down thefinal half hour.twenty minutes, said dale, unemotionally.if the others heard him, they gave no sign of it. he looked atthem, noticing their reactions to the strain of waiting as theystood clustered close to the circular windows. of the five men inthe steel room he was the least affected. his years of rocketracing had bred in him the ability to face the start of anadventure in a spirit of cold fatalism., or, perhaps moreaccurately, to anaesthetize temporarily his natural emotions. the

other four were gazing through the thick fused quartz panesacross the unlovely plain as though it were the most beautifulview on earth.geoffrev dugan, the youngest of them, took the least trouble tohide his feelings. dale looked symapathetically at his eyes shiningbrightly with excitement, noted his parted. lips and quickbreathing through closed teeth. he knew just what dugan wasfeeling. had he not gone through it all himself, he had beentwenty four, just dugans present age, when. he had flown in theequatorial race, and lie had not forgotten his sensations beforethe start the lad was the right stuff. he was glad that he hadpilot and navigator.frond, the jounalist, turned and caught his eye, grinnedunconvincingly, and then looked back to the window dalenoticed that he was fidgeting. so the tension was getting under