He waited until the footsteps moved off. Then he swore. He'd put on an act himself. He was ashamed of being keyed up. He'd posed as a man with iron nerves, sleeping soundly before the take-off of the first ship ever to try a piloted orbital flight.
When he went out of his room he disliked himself very much.
It was an hour later, and the morning sunshine was bright, when he came out of the officers' quarters and got into the jeep that was waiting for him. Furness, he learned, was already out at the ship. The general was there too. Things were moving smoothly.
The jeep rolled over the flat ground, the picked-up pebbles making a thunderous rattling against the mud-guards and a vast plume of yellow dust trailing it.
And presently there was the ship. It was a singular spectacle—the huge, seemingly clumsy object with its dropped-down cabin shining in the slanting morning light. It seemed peculiarly isolated, out here on the featureless plain. There was nothing near it to account for its existence. Empty, board-flat ground stretched out for miles in every direction. The buildings at the base seemed tiny from here. The ship was alone like a steamer in the middle of the ocean, except that men clustered about its wheels, and there was a pickup truck that had brought ladders, and tiny dark figures swarmed over the still, glistening aluminum body.
The jeep drew near. It swung in a slightly exaggerated curve and came to a stop.
"The general's yonder," said the jeep driver, pointing.
McCauley walked over. The general faced him, and McCauley saluted.
"Ah, McCauley," the general said cordially. "You look fresh and rested."
"Yes, sir," said McCauley. He saw Furness nearby. He felt very much like a heel.