Down by the open eastern door of the Shed at the desert's edge, Sally Holt and Joe's father waited together, watching the sky. Sally was white and scared. Joe's father patted her shoulder reassuringly.
"He'll make it, all right," said Sally, dry-throated.
Joe's father nodded. "Of course he will!" But his voice was not steady.
"Nothing could happen to him now!" said Sally fiercely.
"Of course not," said Joe's father.
A loudspeaker close to them said abruptly: "Nineteen miles."
There was a tiny, straggling thread of white visible in the now. It thinned out to nothingness, but its nearest part flared out and flared out and flared out. It grew larger, came closer with a terrifying speed.
"Twelve miles," said the speaker harshly. "Rockets firing."
The downward-hurtling trail of smoke was like a crippled plane falling flaming from the sky, except that no plane ever fell so fast.
At seven miles the white-hot glare of the rocket flames was visible even in broad daylight. At three miles the light was unbearably bright. At two, the light winked out. Sally saw something which glittered come plummeting toward the ground, unsupported.