Silently, head high, he strode past the naked, astonished faces.
Dusk. A silence blanketed the take-off field. The seconds hung in the air like bits of fire and ice.
Captain George Everson, the man with no legs, waved to the multitude as he entered his silver rocket.
Presently there was a sound of thunder, and the land trembled. Flame belched from the stern of the Lunar Lady. Slowly, the rocket began to rise. The multitude drew back, like frightened red ghosts in the fiery glare from the grumbling jets.
A greater avalanche of flame spewed from the rocket. A furnace-hot wind shrilled over the field, lashing at hair and clothing, at banner and flag.
And suddenly the Lunar Lady was gone. It was a needle of fire high in the twilight sky, a vanishing target for a million narrowed eyes.
A hushed, reverent murmur rose from the field.
A small girl in a pink party dress tugged at her mother's skirt.
"Look, Mommy," she whispered. "Look at that funny old man. He keeps saying, 'This is for you,' and he's crying and laughing at the same time!"