If for one moment you let yourself think of it, you loved it, too, for even though it symbolized wars and destruction, you had to admire its balance and slenderness of structure. With it, you could rub away the fog cosmetic of Venus, re-delineate its prehistorically shy face. And there was Mars, too. Man had been imprisoned a million years. Why not freedom now, at last?
Then he labeled all these fantasies by their correct name, ESCAPE, and settled back, to wait the return of the Rocket.
"The moon Rocket is returning! It will land this morning at nine o'clock!" Everybody's audio was blatting.
Like a yellow seed, the Rocket dropped down the sky, to sprout roots of flame on which to cushion itself. It fried the tarmac and a vast deluge of warm air rushed across the country for miles. People sweltered amidst a sudden rocket summer.
In his tower room, William Stanley watched, solemn and wordless.
The Rocket shimmered. Across the cooling tarmac, the crowd rioted, bursting through the barrier, sweeping the police aside in elation.
The tide halted and boiled and changed form, layer upon layer. A vast hush came upon it.
Now the round air-lock door of the Rocket jetted out air in a compressed sigh.
The thick door, sandwiched into the ship-hull, took two minutes to come outward and pull aside on its oiled hingework. The crowd pressed closer, flesh to flesh, eyes widened. The door was now open completely. A great cheer went up. The crew of the Moon Rocket stood in the air-lock. The cheer faded, almost instantly.