Bradlaw was as good as his word. For the next seven weeks, Bus Bannister worked at the Las Cruces Launching Area of Spaceways, Inc. The sleek ship, one hundred and twenty-one feet long, twenty feet thick at the widest point, was stripped down to the bare hull and the jets changed to allow for a more gradual pickup of speed. The recoil arrangements on the pilot seat were changed to Bus’s specifications, the front jets changed to automatic control. He knew that, as the changes were made to the master ship, identical changes were being made in the duplicate south of the border.
Always, Harder was with him. Every minute of the day and night. There was no avoiding his quiet, cynical alertness.
The special escape-hatch was made at night, the edges grooved so that the joining was invisible. The recess was made in the lead shields. Bus spent over an hour one night practising the escape, sliding down into the deep cavity in the lead which had been prepared for him. He did it over and over until each move was automatic.
On the night before the launching, he put on the protective suit and watched the installation of the master capsules for the atomic drive. Three workmen died in the shops that night. Bus realized that they were the three who had done work on the escape hatch, on the recess in the lead shield. He told himself that it was best that way — the fewer people who knew, the better. A world hero couldn’t walk around chewing his fingers and taking quick looks over his shoulder — he had to be sure of his prestige.
Weather was right. The yellow sun flared down out of the blue sky and the multitudes sat in their cars and aircraft, listening to the speeches over the P.A. system. The Vice President was the guest of honor. He spoke at length.
Bus heard parts of it:
“—intrepid young man... vision of the future... conquest of space... new worlds... the stars come home... where others have failed... we honor the dead and pledge ourselves, nay, re-dedicate ourselves—”
He was grabbed and hauled blushing and confused onto the platform, the silver face of the mike in front of him, the television cameras staring at him with inquisitive eyes.
He said, “All this is fine, but — well, I’m just another guy who tries to drive these things. If I do it, it will be because a lot of other guys sweated out the details in the lab. The astrogation is mechanical, almost. I’ll just sit there — and I guess I’ll do some praying. Thanks for coming to watch it!”
They yelled and they blew the horn of the cars. The sound roared in Bus Bannister’s ears as he climbed the ladder to the scaffold, slid into the open port and screwed it shut. The sound ceased abruptly. It was very quiet inside the ship.
The suit was there — and the time to climb into it. He looked around and relocated the escape hatch. He slid into the G suit and zipped it up the middle. He clamped the wring flap shut around the base of the helmet and appeared for a moment at the port as he had been instructed.
He could see the thousands of cars down there, see the faces closer by, see the tears that surprisingly gleamed in the sun on the gray withered cheeks of the Vice President. They turned and started to hurry back away from the ship, away from the white fury of the expected blast.
He moved quickly to the escape hatch, put his hand on the concealed handle. He glanced at the automatic timer. Ten seconds to zero. Just barely time to make it. He paused for another second. His hand dropped away from the handle. With frantic haste he climbed into the pilot seat, snapped the heavy plastic webbing across his thighs, around his middle. His eyes were on the clock as he fastened the intake vent to his G suit to the compressed air nozzle. He pushed the cock and the air hissed into the suit. Two seconds to zero. He checked the recoil, unlatched the seat, forced his head back against the deep cushioned rest.
A gigantic hand clamped tightly around his middle and he screamed with all the power of his lungs. Through misted, slitted eyes, he looked up through the quartz port and saw the sky dropping toward him.