ittle while. That glow faded--and Cochrane became aware of the
enormous stillness. He had not really noticed the rocket's deafening
roar until it ended.

The helicab flew onward almost silently, with only the throbbing pulses
of its overhead vanes making any sound at all.

"_I kidded myself about those rockets, too_," said Cochrane bitterly to
himself. "_I thought getting to the moon meant starting to the stars.
New worlds to live on. I had a lot more fun before I found out the facts
of life!_"

But he knew that this cynicism and this bitterness came out of the hurt
to the vanity that still insisted everything was a mistake. He'd
received orders which disillusioned him about his importance to the firm
and to the business to which he'd given years of his life. It hurt to
find out that he was just another man, just another expendable. Most
people fought against making the discovery, and some succeeded in
avoiding it. But Cochrane saw his own self-deceptions with a savage
clarity even as he tried to keep them. He did not admire himself at all.

The helicab began to slant down toward the space-port buildings. The sky
was full of stars. The earth--of course--was covered with buildings.
Except for the space-port there was no unoccupied ground for thirty
miles in any direction. The cab was down to a thousand feet. To five
hundred. Cochrane saw the just-arrived rocket with tender-vehicles
running busily to and fro and hovering around it. He saw the rocket he
should take, standing upright on the faintly lighted field.

The cab touched ground. Cochrane stood up and paid the fare. He got out
and the cab rose four or five feet and flitted over to the waiting-line.

He went into the space-port building. He felt himself growing more
bitter still. Then he found Bill Holden--Doctor William Holden--standing
dejectedly against a wall.

"I believe you've got some orders for me, Bill," said Cochrane
sardonically. "And just what psychiatric help can I give you?"

Holden said tiredly:

"I don't like this any better than you do, Jed. I'm scared to death of
space-travel. But go get your ticket and I'll tell you about it on the
way up. It's a special production job. I'm roped in on it too."

"Happy holiday!" said Cochrane, because Holden looked about as miserable
as a man could look.

He went to the ticket desk. He gave his name. On request, he produced
identification. Then he said sourly:

"While you're working on this I'll make