Mel tried to laugh, but his voice sounded tight. "Well, Walter...."
"It's up to you, Mel. The whole shebang."
Mel's mouth worked dryly and he nodded. "Yep. Guess.... Guess I better suit up...."
Walter Stanton waited inside the hub, gazing through the port at the tiny fighter across the landing-lock. I wish ... I wish it were me who could fly it, he thought desperately. He ran his hand along the support rail, as if caressing the metal and plastic of the Platform. He remembered the dreams, the toil, the heartbreak, far back to when men laughed at the concept of a platform in space. He thought of the pioneers of rocket work, some of them dead; the men at Peenemunde using their brains for war but even so adding painstakingly to the fund of knowledge. He thought of the moment of blinding elation three months before, when the last reactor had been cut off and the core of Space One swung easily into her orbit. If only Mel could understand.... Better yet, if I could fly.... He knew certainly that he himself would give his life to save the Platform; knew surely that Lynne would understand. But would Mel Cramer give his life? For his country, probably; for his home and family, surely; but for what he seemed to consider a useless scientific gadget?
He heard a movement and turned. Mel Cramer, massive in his flight gear, but with his helmet off, was standing behind him. His face was drawn.
"Well, Walter, wish me luck."
"Mel.... Do you know what this means? Really?"
"My indoctrination is complete, if that's what you mean. I can't agree with you that the world will fall apart if Space One isn't a success, but the world's falling apart anyway, so it really doesn't matter. I'll make my passes as close as possible."
And if you miss? thought Walter Stanton. What will you do? Will you make another pass, a sacrificial pass? He wished for a moment that their culture embodied the Oriental concept of patriotism; the disregard for human life, the fatalistic belief in some paradise for battle-dead.