“Henry, you know I used to slug it out on the circuits as a heavyweight. You couldn’t throw me out. You look like you ain’t had a square meal in a month, besides. So forget it. Shut that door, Henry, and sid-down!” It was an order. Given in the same tone of voice Bill O’Neil had used with his test-stand crews on occasion. There was no arguing with a person who could make the toughest pipe fitter in the business knuckle under.
Enright glared at him for a full minute, then slowly closed the rickety door without taking his eyes from the former rocket technician. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“I came to give you something you wouldn’t come and get for yourself. I had it splashed all over the newspapers so you’d maybe see it.” O’Neil paused. Enright didn’t say anything, so he went on, “You see, the International Astronautical Federation met in Los Angeles last week and gave out a brand new award. Only men who’ve contributed to the conquest of space get it. It’s the highest honor they give, Henry. Von Braun, Sänger, Bridgeman, Peterson, Eaton, and myself were nominated. They decided on me, hut I didn’t want it. What I did wasn’t the result of a life’s work; I just got an idea and I didn’t have to sweat over it much.
“I asked them to give it to you, Henry. You were the one who got me really interested in space travel, and you were the project engineer for the first satellite.
“We couldn’t find you, though, so I told them I’d deliver it to you. Took me a week to find out where you were.” His hand slipped into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, Hat, blue box. He thrust it toward Henry Enright. “Here it is, Henry. We all thought you deserved it, so you’ve got the first Goddard Medal.”
The engineer slowly put out his hand and took it. Opening the lid, he discovered a gold medallion with a bas relief of one of Dr. Goddard’s little rockets rising out of its tower at Roswell. Good for five bucks at Benny’s.
No. Not this. This was not something to pawn.
His mind was a maelstrom of confused thoughts. Slapping the cover shut, he dropped down into a chair with no back. Somehow, he was touched and humbled by that little piece of gold; it also made him feel ashamed of himself. Finally, he asked, “Why? Everything I’ve worked for is gone. It’s finished. It’s dead.”
O’Neil sat down across the table from him. He seemed puzzled for a moment before he asked, “Yeah? Is it?”
“Certainly it’s dead! You and your force-field killed it all! When does a rocket blast off for the satellite any more? There are no rockets! You killed them!”