Frank Nelsen longed to paste somebody, even in the absence of absolute
impoliteness.

The blastoff drums were already being lifted off the trucks, weighed,
screened electronically, and moved toward a loading elevator on a
conveyor. The whole process was automatic.

"Nine men--ten drums--how come?" one of the U.S.S.F. people inquired.

"A spare. Its GO carriage charge is paid," Reynolds answered.

He got an amused and tired smirk. "Okay, Sexy--it's all right with us.
And I hope you fellas were smart enough not to eat any breakfast. Of
course we'd like to have you say--tentatively--where you'll be headed,
on your own power, after we toss you Upstairs. Toward the Moon, huh,
like most fledglings say? It helps a little to know. Some new folks
start to scream and get lost, up there. See how it is?"

"Sure--we see--thanks. Yes--the Moon." This was still Charlie Reynolds
talking.

"No problem, then, Sexy. We mean to be gentle. Now let's move along, in
line. Never mind consulting wristwatches--we've got over four hours
left. Final blood pressure check, first. Then the shot, the
devil-killer, the wit-sharpener. And try to remember some of what you're
supposed to have learned. Relax, don't talk too much, and try not to
swallow any live butterflies."

The physician, looking them over, shook his head and made a wry face of
infinite sadness, when he came to Gimp and Lester, but he offered no
comment except a helpless shrug.

The U.S.S.F. spokesman was still with them. "All right--armor up. Let's
see how good you are at it."

They scrambled to it grimly, and still a little clumsily. Gimp Hines
had, of course, long ago tailored his Archer to fit that shrunken right
leg. Then they just sat around in the big locker room, trying to get
used to being enclosed like this, much of the time, checking to see that
everything was functioning right, listening to the muffled voices that
still reached them from beyond their protecting encasement. They could
still have conversed, by direct sound or by helmet-radio, but the
devil-killer seemed to subdue the impulse, and for a while caused a
dreaminess that shortened the long wait...

"Okay--time to move!"

Heavy with their Archies, they filed out into desert sun-glare that
their darkened helmets made feeble. They arose in the long climb of the
gantry elevator and split into two groups, for the two rockets,
according to their GO numbers. It didn't seem to matter, now, who went
with whom