We were sitting in an administration office at the park. I now recognized the symptoms; when the GG had no real problems, its collective mind usually turned to my health. I wouldn't admit it, but I felt a little peaked. Little? Hell, bone-tired, dog-weary pooped. Seemed every motion was effort, but soon it would end.
The phone rang. With the message, it was ended.
"Let's go, grouseketeers."
There was almost a pregnant pause. Six months: conception of the idea to delivery of finished product; six months, working together, fighting men, nature, and the perversity of inanimate objects—all of this now was done.
No one moved; Frank verbalized it: "I'm scared." She sounded scared.
"Better than being petrified, which I am," I answered. "But we might as well face it."
We dragged over to the TS building, an impressive structure.
The guide played it straight, told us exactly how to suit up. Then, in the cart, we edged into the tunnel that was the first lock, and—warned to set our filters—emerged onto the blinding surface of Mercury.
We felt the heat momentarily—Mercury and Venus were kept at a constant 140 F, the others at 0 F—but it was a deliberate thrill. Then cool air from the cart suit-connections began circulating.
Bonestell was magnificent, as always. Yellow landscape, spatter cones, glittering streaks that might be metal in the volcanic ground—created by dusting ground mica on wet glue to catch the reflection of the sun. It was a masterpiece.