be useful today. They were supposedly life-saving
devices. If the ship came a cropper on take-off, the four of them were
supposed to use ejection-seats like those supplied to jet pilots. They
would be thrown clear of the ship and ribbon-parachutes might open and
might let them land alive. But it wasn't likely. Joe had objected to
their presence. If a feather dropped to Earth from a height of 600
miles, it would be falling so fast when it hit the atmosphere that it
would heat up and burn to ashes from pure air-friction. It wasn't likely
that they could get out of the ship if anything went wrong.

Somebody marched stiffly toward the four of them. Joe's expression grew
rueful. The Space Project was neither Army nor Navy nor Air Corps, but
something that so far was its own individual self. But the man marching
toward Joe was Lieutenant Commander Brown, strictly Navy, assigned to
the Shed as an observer. And there were some times when he baffled Joe.
Like now.

He halted, and looked as if he expected Joe to salute. Joe didn't.

Lieutenant Commander Brown said, formally: "I would like to offer my
best wishes for your trip, Mr. Kenmore."

"Thanks," said Joe.

Brown smiled distantly. "You understand, of course, that I consider
navigation essentially a naval function, and it does seem to me that any
ship, including a spaceship, should be manned by naval personnel. But I
assuredly wish you good fortune."

"Thanks," said Joe again.

Brown shook hands, then stalked off.

Haney rumbled in his throat. "How come, Joe, he doesn't wish all of us
good luck?"

"He does," said Joe. "But his mind's in uniform too. He's been trained
that way. I'd like to make a bet that we have him as a passenger out to
the Platform some day."

"Heaven forbid!" growled Haney.

There was an outrageous tumult outside the wide-open gap in the Shed's
wall. Something went shrieking by the doorway. It looked like the
magnified top half of a loaf of baker's bread, painted gray and equipped
with an air-scoop in front and a plastic bubble for a pilot. It howled
like a lost baby dragon, its flat underside tilted up and up until it
was almost vertical. It had no wings, but a blue-white flame spurted
out of its rear, wobbling from side to side for reasons best known to
itself. It was a pushpot, which could not possibly be called a jet plane
because it could not possibly fly. Only it did. It settled down on its
flame-spouting tail, and the sparse vegetation