Mustapha IX had shaken hands for the last time with Villainowski and hurried down the gangplank. The ports were all sealed; crew at their stations. Outside the pits, the frenzied crowd was delirious with excitement. Wasn't it man's first attempt to reach the stars?
Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!
On the last stroke the Shooting Star fell silent except for the muffled roar of her tubes warming. At the same instant the crowd grew impossibly still.
The raw fear, which had made itself felt in spite of the festivities, rode to the surface. The strange psychological dread of deep space.
A woman in the relatives' stand suddenly buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with violent sobs. She was the wife of the master mechanic on the third's watch. A gray-faced man moved towards the woman, patted her shoulders.
Just then a continuous violent explosion shook the frail stand like an earth tremor. The Shooting Star burst from the pits, trailing a comet-tail of orange flame.
"Oh, my husband!" wailed the woman, "oh, my husband!" but her voice was drowned in the roar.
Jon Saxon threw off his safety belt, glanced across at the strained white face of Ileth Urban in the next acceleration chair. "Buck up," he grinned. "It's too late to change your mind now."
The girl nervously tucked a curl in place, smiled uncertainly. "Heaven help me! Are we going to share all my thoughts during the rest of the voyage?"