She thinks no one else could do it, he told himself. That's love. There were a dozen qualified men, and yet—
The moonshot was his.
RIDE THE ROCKET!
"All right, baby," he said.
As he paid their fare for the rocket-ride, Pete found himself looking at the girl in the booth. Tired eyes and stringy hennaed hair. No dreams there. He had an impulse to tell her that soon he'd really be riding the rocket and that from then on things would be different.
New frontiers and new dreams for everybody. Up and up.
The girl's eyes met his, and it was Pete who looked away. You don't talk frontiers to pale, worn faces and eyes bleached of color by tinny music and stinks and men.
They walked up a wooden ramp to where a little metal bullet on rails waited. The paint, once bright, was all scuffy. A sour-faced attendant in grayish coveralls stood by a large lever.
"Fasten ya seat belts, Mac."