matches,
clothing....

The ship's radio said, "Fourteen minutes to take-off."

Ken flung himself on the couch. Carol moved in quietly beside him.

"You understand, Carol," he said, "you're to touch no controls unless
I'm unable to."

"Yes."

"You'll handle the cameras only, but you'll keep reminding me of every
step to be taken, as though I'd forgotten, and make sure I answer
sensibly each time."

"Yes, Ken."

Yes, _Ken_. A pulse throbbed in his temple.

They watched the crowd on the screen--scattered now, far from that area
below and behind the ship which would be washed in radiation. They
listened to the radio calling off the minutes before departure. Ken
kept his thoughts on the structure of the space vessel, similar in
many ways to vastly cheaper atmosphere models he and Carol had
flown--separately--for hundreds of training hours. Behind them, and
lining the inner hull, was a light, spongy wall protecting them from the
atomic converters aft. The surrounding couch could be regulated to form
a resilient cocoon during high-G acceleration and deceleration, or
during periods of weightlessness. Forward were the controls, instruments
and hooded viewport.

Escape velocity was not needed to pull away from gravity. With atomic
engines and the new, low-mass shielding, fuel quantity was a problem of
dollars only--and none had been spared for this voyage. The
psychologists had seen to that.

"Eight minutes to take-off."

He started the atomic reactors, a mighty purring here in the sealed
cabin. Gently, watching the instruments, he tested bow and stern
rockets, matching fore and aft forces delicately, tentatively increasing
stern thrust until the craft barely stirred in its silicone-greased,
magnetized launching rack.

"Two minutes to take-off."

They placed their faces against soft masks in the couch, down through
which they could watch the instruments, in a mirror, the video screen
and bow viewport. The couch encompassed them, their arms in padded slots
reaching to the controls.

"... thirty-four, thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one...."

Thunder hammered at their ears. The couch squeezed them as the
_Latecomer_ shot beyond its ramp, increased its velocity. Ken gripped a
lever which cut in the autopilot to take them beyond atmosphere, beyond
gravity.

* * * * *

Ken unhooded the viewport, leaving covered only that section which
blocked a tiny blinding sun. They stared int