A pound of prevention

By G. C. EDMONDSON
Illustrated by RICHARD KLUGA
They knew the Mars-shot might fail, as the previous ones had. All the more reason, then, for having one good meal!
Without his hat General Carnhouser was just a tired old man. Three men sat at the other side of the table. No use trying to gloss it over, he said.
The young men nodded. If this shot failed it might be a hundred years before Congress could be conned into another appropriation. The three young men had an even better reason not to fail. They were going to be in the rocket.
Hagstrom spoke. There were no technical difficulties in the previous shots.
Right, the general said. Take-offs proceeded according to schedule. Orbital corrections were made; then everybody settled down for a four-month wait. When deceleration time came the shot was still in the groove.
We know, van den Burg said tiredly. He worked a microscopic speck of dirt from under a fingernail. There was a loud snap as he snipped the nail off. He stared at the general, a lean forefinger to one side of his ascetic nose.
I'm no expert, the general said wearily. When you reach my age they turn you into an office boy.
Hagstrom lit a cigarette. It's tomorrow, isn't it?
The general nodded. They're loading now.
The third man's slight build and bushy black hair belied his mestizo origins. I still don't think much of those rations, he said.