two orbits before being destroyed. Observers stated that a
cargo hatch had somehow swung open when the _Wyld_ was only a thousand
feet in the air. At any rate, the pilot reported damage to one
second-stage fin and tried to brake his way down. The _Wyld_ settled
beautifully, tilted, then fell headlong. The resultant explosion caused
such destruction that, had there not been a number of men in orbit and
waiting for supplies, the project might have been halted, "temporarily."
It was generally conceded that a more thorough preflight could have
prevented the _Wyld's_ immolation.

Ruiz was noticeably quieter during the remainder of the inspection. The
external check completed, MacNamara strapped a small flashlight to his
wrist and began the internal inspection, jokingly called the autopsy.

* * * * *

An hour and over a hundred and fifty feet later, MacNamara wheezed as he
swung over the bulkhead at the base of _Valier's_ third and top stage.
His aching limbs persuaded him to take a breather. After all, his
complete inspection of the day before really made a final preflight
unnecessary, and passing near the frigid oxygen tanks was a day's work
in itself. He listened to the innumerable noises around and below him.
The clicks and hums near him meant that Ruiz, having given up following
him, was checking out the flight controls, with power on only in the top
stage. From below came a vibrational rushing noise, nearly subsonic,
which told him of the fueling operation. He thought of the electrical
relays governing the fuel input and shuddered. He violently disliked the
idea of having hot wires near fuel of any kind, and rocket fuel in
particular.

MacNamara swept his light over his wrist watch. Fifteen after. Logan
should be along soon, he thought, and hastened to finish checking the
conduits, servos, pumps and hydraulic actuators below the cabin level.
This done, he crawled up the final ladder to the cabin, or "dome."

"Well," cried a cheerful voice, "if it isn't our grimy Irishman."

MacNamara shook the sweat from his brow and muttered, "Irishman, is it?
How about 'Logan'? That's a good Scandinavian name."

"How about Logan? He's great, as usual. Just look at me, Mac. What a
specimen!" Logan, the inevitable optimist, bounced out of his
acceleration couch and spread his arms wide as if to show the world what
a superman he, Carl Logan, was. The gesture and its intimations made
MacNamara smile.