Besides, who gave a damn?
He was just the stupid jerk who piloted the thing. What did it matter if he got killed in the attempt.
My rocket started out for the star-speckled void, my rocket started out in great haste; but the g's were far too many for me, and I stuck to the bulkhead like paste!
Burger and Maxwell had sent a rocket as far as the moon, hadn't they?
He was sick—he didn't care whether he lived or died.
He was a sucker. A dope. A sick dope who wished to hell it was all over.
The moon was close now. If he waited until he got just a little closer and then pressed the portside firing stud, he could wreck their blessed rocket. Serve Burger and Maxwell right. As for himself, he was so sick of the whole thing that death would come as a relief.
That's what he'd do....
My bonny, my bonny, my bonny so true, do you think you will miss me if I die in the blue?
C day for Crack-up day! He put his thumb on the key and allowed himself five extra seconds of gloating. The company would have a tough time sending a wreath to his funeral. The company....