Job, the one with the new XL3-motor, is cutting gravity in an hour!”
“Buddha, Muhammad, Allah, and other real and semi-mythological figures,” I said, and went away from the window so fast the concussion laid all the boys out on my lawn.
I zippered myself into a jumper, yanked on my boots, clipped my food-capsules to my hip-pocket, for I knew there’d be no food or even thought of food today, we’d just stuff with pills when our stomachs barked, and fell down the two-story vacuum elevator.
On the lawn, all five of the guys were chewing their lips, bouncing around, scowling.
“Last one,” said I, passing them at 5000 mph, “to the monorail is a bug-eyed Martian!”
On the monorail, with the cylinder hissing us along to Rocket Port, twenty miles from town—a few minutes ride—I had bugs in my stomach. A guy fifteen doesn’t get to see the big stuff often enough, mostly every week it was the small continental cargo rockets coming and going on schedule. But this was big, among the biggest … the Moon and beyond.…
“I’m sick,” said Priory, and hit me on the arm.
I hit him back. “Me, too. Boy, ain’t Saturday the best day in the week!?”
Priory and I traded wide, understanding grins. We got along all Condition Go. The other pirates were okay. Sid Rossen, Mac Leslyn, Earl Marnee, they knew how to jump around like all the kids, and they loved the rockets, too, but I had the feeling they wouldn’t be doing what Ralph and I would do some day. Ralph and I wanted the stars for each of us, more than we would want a fistful of clear-cut blue-white diamonds.
We yelled with the yellers, we laughed with the laughers, but at the middle of it all, we were still, Ralph and I, and the cylinder whispered to a stop and we were outside yelling, laughing, running, but quiet and almost in slow motion, Ralph ahead of me, and all of us pointed one way, at the observation fence and grabbing hold, yelling for the slowpokes to catch up, but not looking back for them, and then we were all there together and the big rocket came out of its plastic work canopy like a great interstellar circus tent and moved along its gleaming track out toward the fire point, accompanied by the gigantic gantry like a gathering of prehistoric reptile birds which kept and preened and fed this one big fire monster and led it toward its seizure and birth into a suddenly blast-furnace sky.
I quit breathing. I didn’t even suck another breath it seemed until the rocket was way out on the concrete meadow, followed by water-beetle tractors and great cylinders bearing hidden men, and all around, in asbestos suits, praying-mantis mechanics fiddled with machines and buzzed and cawwed and gibbered to each other on invisible, unhearable radiophones, but we could hear it all, in our heads, our minds, our hearts.
“Lord,” I said at last.
“The very good Lord,” said Ralph Priory at my elbow.
The others said this, too, over and over.
It was something to “good Lord” about. It was a hundred years of dreaming all sorted out and chosen and put together to make the hardest, prettiest, swiftest dream of all. Every line was fire solidified and made perfect, it was flame frozen, and ice waiting to thaw there in the middle of a concrete prairie, ready to wake with a roar, jump high and knock its silly fine great head against the Milky Way and knock the stars down in a full return of firefall meteors. You felt it could kick the Coal Sack Nebula square in the midriff and make it stand out of the way.
It got me in the midriff, too—it gripped me in such a way I knew the special sickness of longing and envy and grief for lack of accomplishment. And when the astronauts patrolled the field in the final silent mobile-van, my body went with them in their strange white armor, in their bubble-helmets and insouciant pride, looking as if they were team-parading to a magnetic football game at one of the local mag-fields, for mere practice. But they were going to the Moon, they went every month now, and the crowds that used to come to watch were no longer there, there was just us kids to worry them up and worry them off.
“Gosh,” I said. “What wouldn’t I give to go with them. What wouldn’t I give.”
“Me,” said Mac, “I’d give my one-year monorail privileges.”
“Yeah. Oh, very much yeah.”
It was a big feeling for us kids caught half between this morning’s toys and this afternoon’s very real and powerful fireworks.
And then the preliminaries got over with. The fuel was in the rocket and the men ran away from it on the ground like ants running lickety from a metal god—and the Dream woke up and gave a yell and jumped into the sky. And then it was gone, all the vacuum shouting of it, leaving nothing but a hot trembling in the air, through the ground, and up our legs to our hearts. Where it had been was a blazed, seared pock and a fog of rocket smoke like a cumulus cloud banked low.
“It’s gone!” yelled Priory.
And we all began to breathe fast again, frozen there on the ground as if stunned by the passing of a gigantic paralysis gun.
“I want to grow up quick,” I said, then. “I want to grow up quick so I can take that rocket.”
I bit my lips. I was so darned young, and you cannot apply for space work. You have to be chosen. Chosen.
Finally somebody, I guess it was Sidney, said:
“Let’s go to the tele-show now.”
Everyone said yeah, except Priory and myself. We said no, and the other kids went off laughing breathlessly, talking, and left Priory and me there to look at the spot where the ship had been.
It spoiled everything else for us—that takeoff.
Because of it, I flunked my semantics test on Monday.
I didn’t care.
At times like that I thanked Providence for concentrates. When your stomach is nothing but a coiled mass of excitement, you hardly feel like drawing a chair to a full hot dinner. A few concen-tabs swallowed, did wonderfully well as substitution, without the urge of appetite.
I got to thinking about it, tough and hard, all day long and late at night. It got so bad I had to use sleep-massage mechs every night, coupled with some of Tschaikovsky’s quieter music to get my eyes shut.
“Good Lord, young man,” said my teacher, that Monday at class. “If this keeps up I’ll have you reclassified at the next psych-board meeting.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied.
He looked hard at me. “What sort of block have you got? It must be a very simple, and also a conscious, one.”
I winced. “It’s conscious, sir; but it’s not simple. It’s multitentacular. In brief, though—it’s rockets.”
He smiled. “R is for Rocket, eh?”
“I guess that’s it, sir.”
“We can’t let it interfere with your scholastic record, though, young man.”
“Do you think I need hypnotic suggestion, sir?”
“No, no.” He flipped through a small tab of records with my name blocked
