This was the ship of hope.
Its rockets flickered into blue flames. Their soft purr of power deepened. Abruptly, the earth was trembling to the throaty roar of rockets.
In its long steel-rollered cradle, the ship trembled.
One of the workers, his denim trousers grease-stained, bending down, scooped up a handful of the dust at his feet, flung it at the shining ship.
"Just for luck," he said.
In the glass bulge atop the shining ship, John Bairn, the pilot, licked feverish lips. He brushed the black hair away from his gray eyes. His stubby fingers raced over the keys of the control panel before him.
His right hand touched—almost reverently—the scarlet handle of the firing lever.
He pushed the lever forward one notch ... two ... three....
He braced himself in the hydraulic-cushioned pilot's chair.
"Venus, here we come!"