"Hell, Doc," he said, "let him go. It won't make any difference. He won't reach Mars. He's just going out in space to die like all the rest of them."
Alexander snapped savagely at him. "You don't know what you're saying. You drink too much."
"Forget it, Doc," said Scott. "He's telling the truth. I won't get to Mars, of course. You know what they're saying down in the base camp, don't you? About the bridge of bones. Walking to Mars over a bridge of bones."
The old man stared at him. "You have lost faith? You don't think you'll go to Mars?"
Scott shook his head. "I haven't lost my faith. Someone will get there ... sometime. But it's too soon yet. Look at that tablet, will you!"
He waved his hand at a bronze plate set into the wall.
"The roll of honor," said Scott, bitterly. "Look at the names. You'll have to buy another soon. There won't be room enough."
One Nixon already was on that scroll of bronze. Hugh Nixon, fifty-fourth from the top. And under that the name of Harry Decker, the man who had gone out with him.
The radio blurted suddenly at them, jabbering, squealing, howling in anguish.
Scott stiffened, ears tensed as the code sputtered across millions of miles. But it was the same old routine. The same old message, repeated over and over again ... the same old warning hurled out from the ruddy planet.