"We're off to the sky," Glory said.
Somewhere old machinery wheezed.
The little bullet began to move along the rails toward a hinged trap-door in a wall painted to look like clouds.
"Hold my hand, Pete," Glory said breathlessly.
Glory, Glory, he thought. Young and simple and in love with life. Any kind of life. Real or unreal. Glory with a bubbling laughter, a zest, a faith. Maybe it was really for her that he was taking the big flight. If only he could bring back the pot of gold. If only he could tell weary Man that the sky was all his. He thought of the strained, unhappy faces in the streets, the fear-filled eyes. If he could return and say to them: "Here's your new frontier!" Yes, by God, it was worth the work, and the risk. Glory was right. It was something to be proud of.
I'm going to the moon!
Me, Pete Moore, to the moon!
"There it is, Pete!"
They had bumped through the painted door into a musty semi-darkness. The walls were perforated with holes for stars, and from somewhere below a huge yellowish moon was rising.
Off a short way to the right was a glowing papier-mâché globe painted with broad bands slightly askew, and behind that was another with rings.