Journey For The Brave

                           By Alan E. Nourse

                Courage will be a big qualification for
            the pilot who flies the first moon rocket. But
            who decides if a man is brave--or a coward?...

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                              April 1954
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The base diner was hot and stuffy that night as Scotty Johnson sat
with Mitch and Jack and the other boys, sipping his last cup of
coffee before Zero Hour rolled around. Mitch and Jack had succeeded
in sneaking him out of town before the reporters had guessed what was
happening. Now they sat in silence, sipping their coffee, glancing at
him from time to time as though to make sure he were still there. It
annoyed Scotty. This was the time to laugh, and joke, and bull away as
if nothing was going to happen at all.

The waitress trotted over with a coffee pot, and Scotty gave her his
widest leer. "You know, I can't think of anything I'd rather have right
now than a cup of coffee from you," he said. "How about a date in about
ten days?"

The girl looked startled, and glanced away nervously. Mitch gave a
tight little laugh. "Better watch out. Scotty. She's liable to be
waiting on the landing field when you get back--"

They all laughed at that, and then silence fell again. They were
nervous. Scotty could sense it, even though they tried to cover it up.
All through these weeks of preparation in the hot New Mexico sun, the
tension had been growing. But _he_ should be the one to be nervous, not
these lads. After all, who was the star of this show? Scotty nuzzled
his coffee, and twisted his wiry five-foot-two inch frame around so
that he could see the door. "Better drink up," he said. "The jeep
should be here any minute."

Mitch nodded and emptied his cup as the jeep's tires screeched on the
pavement outside. The door of the coffeeshop burst open, and a head
with an MP's crash helmet popped in. "All set, Scotty? Let's go!"

Scotty nodded. His blue eyes were bright as he buttoned up his jacket
and winked at the waitress. Then he led the group to the door. "Love
that gal," he said.

The driver raced the motor as they piled in and the jeep took off down
the concrete strip with a roar. The driver turned an admiring glance
toward Scotty. "All set for the big trip, man?"

Scotty grinned. "Been sleeping in a coffin all week, just for practice."

"Man, you may need that practice. You'll be good and stiff before you
get out--" He broke off, horrified at the pun.

Scotty roared with glee. "You think you're kidding! That's all
right--the way I see it, I'm getting ten days vacation on the
Government, and plenty of pay besides. And once I get up there, I
won't need much muscle to make my way around, they tell me." He lit a
cigarette, peering down the strip ahead of them. Far ahead he could see
the batteries of searchlights, picking out the tall, shiny spire of the
ship. It stood tall in its scaffolding, pointing like a needle toward
the black star-lit sky. Already the ground below it was swarming with
tiny figures, moving about on the final check-down. My ship, thought
Scotty. I helped to build it. And here's one job where they need a
cocky, loud-mouthed little shrimp more than anything else in the world--

       *       *       *       *       *

Another jeep swerved in beside them on the strip. Scotty caught a
glimpse of the General and a couple of official-looking civilians.

"Everybody's going to see you off," said Mitch from the back seat.

"Yeah--the whole damned crowd. My big day."

"You sure you got everything down cold?"

Scotty gave him a scornful glance. "You kidding? How could I miss?"
His freckled face broke into a grin from ear to ear, and his eyes were
bright with excitement. "Why I've got nothing to do but crawl in and
zip things up after me. Don't even have to throw the fatal switch--they
take care of everything from outside. I'm telling you, it's a cinch.
Three days to tell myself sea stories--and then I'll crawl out and tell
you boys what Lady Moon _really_ looks like."

A crowd of reporters and photographers were waiting as the jeep sped
up to the huge barbed-wire enclosure surrounding the ship. Scotty stuck
his head out of the jeep and gave them a big grin. The flashbulbs
popped. Then the jeep roared on toward the field shack. Scotty stepped
out, staring up at the tall sleek ship. A little bottom-heavy now,
perhaps, but with the first and second stages disengaged--a beauty of a
ship. He stepped into the field shack, and grinned up at the General.
"Final check go all right?"

The General nodded and smiled. "This is the Secretary of Defense,
Scotty--"

"Well! Guess I'm rating big visitors tonight!" He gave the man's hand a
jaunty shake.

"You're taking a big trip," said the Secretary. "Tell me, Mr.
Johnson--how does it feel to be the first man to go to the Moon?"

"Can't say. I haven't been there yet."

"You'd better get aboard," said the General. "Everything's been checked
down. You'll have half an hour to make your own checks from inside.
How's your weight?"

"Down to 128."

"Fine. That's better than we'd hoped. But don't be afraid to holler if
something doesn't look right--" He extended his hand, gripped Scotty's
tightly. "Good luck, lad. We're with you all the way."

A soldier rode up the gantry with him, high up past the break-lines
of the first and second stages, to the small open port in the final
stage of the rocket. Scotty could feel the eyes on him from below as
he climbed into the port--one lone man to jockey the first manned ship
to the Moon. A big job, a job that really took guts. He grinned, and
slid through into the passenger chamber. Carefully he reached back and
slammed the port shut behind him with a farewell wave to the soldier,
and gave the lock-wheel a spin, until he heard the seal click. Then he
slipped down into the half-sitting, half-reclining couch which nearly
filled the tiny chamber. His heart was pounding in his throat as he
snapped on the radio phone. "Okay, I'm in," he said.

"Got her locked up?" Mitch's voice grated in his earphones.

"Ay, ay."

"Give her a careful check inside there. Then stand by."

Scotty nodded and checked the banks of instruments on the tiny panel
before him. He was the payload on this trip; the ship was little more
than an upholstered tube, with him jammed tight in one end and enough
fuel to land him on the Moon and shoot him off again in behind him.
The other sections, far huger than this little pellet with him in the
middle, would drive him out, break the frightful hold that Earth held
on her subjects. But there was nothing superfluous here, nothing he
did not actually need, and he checked quickly. Then he leaned back and
flipped on the forward televiewer....

The vast black expanse of space, peppered with a thousand bright
pinpoints of light, suddenly appeared on the screen inches from his
face. It took him by surprise; his hand jerked down on the switch
again, and he wiped a line of droplets from his upper lip, and closed
his eyes, his heart pounding against his ribs.

The radio blipped in his ear. "Thirty minutes to Zero," it said--

       *       *       *       *       *

It struck Scotty Johnson, then, how very much alone he was.

He felt a chill go down his spine, and he turned his eyes about the
tiny chamber. Forward, within arm's length, was the dull glint of metal
panelling and coiled wires and tight atmosphere sealing. His small wiry
body sank against the deep couch, and he drew the safety webbing across
his chest and thighs, the chill in his mind deepening. Above him was
another pad of soft material to protect his head; his feet were lodged
against a solid bar at the foot of the couch. Inevitably, he thought
of a cocoon. A tight, soft, warm cocoon. And he was alone inside it--

He tried to think when, in all his thirty-four years, he had been so
completely and utterly alone.

He sat very still, listening. All about him was silence. A muted,
deathly silence. His head-set pressed tight against his ears, and he
shook his head, wondering if he had actually heard the words coming
into his ears a few seconds before. Zero minus thirty minutes. Thirty
minutes to wait, alone--

Suddenly, he knew that he was very much afraid--

His lips formed a sneer, and he tried to fight the idea out of his
mind. He was no longer afraid of anything. Those days were gone, far
away. Nothing could scare Scotty Johnson--not even being completely
alone. He reached out his hand, ran a finger over the control board.
Oxygen, chamber pressure, emergency anaesthetic, blast-control--his
hand trembled, and the thought seeped back into his mind again. A voice
was whispering, deep in his ear, _you're afraid, little man, afraid--!_
He could feel the droplets of moisture forming on his forehead, and
even the sound of his breath was muted in the silent chamber.

The seconds ticked by. Still the voice whispered. He was alone--alone
and afraid. No one could help him now, no one in the world. This was
his own world, here in this tight little cabin, and he could die here
and nobody would ever know--

He shook his head savagely. Alone? Ridiculous! At the foot of the ship
were a hundred people, all watching, all thinking about him. They had
built this ship, they were for him all the way. They would get him
safely off the ground, and then it would be just like a subway ride--

But after the blast-off--what then? The hundred men were staying
behind. There were no men where he was going. There was nothing there.
Nothing but death.

His breath was coming faster, and he felt the first chill of panic
stir in his mind. He tried to fight it down angrily. What was there to
get excited about? Nobody had forced him into this seat. He'd begged
for it! For five long years it had been an obsession, his wildest
dream, to be sitting in this seat, waiting for the Zero-count to come
through the headphones. Years of hoping, of pulling strings, of talking
to people and dropping chance remarks, of studying and working and
practicing--and finally, the note in his box, the trip down to the
General's field office that day.

       *       *       *       *       *

Inside the office the General had sat down, regarding him for a long
moment with those cool grey eyes of his. Then he said, "You're sure you
want to do this, Scotty? Dead sure?"

Scotty had nodded, hardly able to find his voice. "I'd give anything.
You've got to let me go."

The General nodded slowly. "You might have to give your life. Does it
mean that much to you? Millions of dollars have gone into this ship,
but there's no way to be sure of it. It's a fearful gamble."

"I'll take any odds, General. The sheep and the chickens came back.
I'll come back."

The General looked out the window, his face carved with weary lines.
"I hate to send a man, alone. But what we need to know, one man can
find out. Two would be a waste--a tragic waste. The sheep and chickens
didn't land, they just circled. But one man must go up, to land a ship,
and take off again, for the first time." His eyes caught Scotty's
gravely. "I want you to know why it's got to be you alone. We can't
gamble on two men's lives, when one will do. _You're the guinea pig!_"

Scotty had stood up then, laughing. "Are you trying to frighten me?
Look, General--I've been working on this ship since it first started.
I know it inside out and backwards. I'm not afraid of this trip. I've
got to be the one to go."

The General had shifted some papers on his desk. "All right. They
weighed you in at 142 pounds. Our calculations call for 135. Every
ounce over that cuts a hard percentage out of your fuel. You'll have to
suck down."

"I can do that."

"All right--but don't starve yourself. And don't dehydrate any more
than you absolutely must. You'll have enough water for ten days, no
more. Three up, three back, four there. Now then. The psych boys will
go to work on your coordination for the next few days. That's critical.
The first and second stages will disengage automatically, but you'll
have to maneuver your own landing."

Scotty nodded. "I've been maneuvering dummies until I'm blue in the
face."

"You'll need it pounded in."

"It's pounded, don't worry."

The General gave a satisfied nod. "All right, Scotty. See you at the
blast-off. And remember, if you want to pull out--nobody will blame
you. Right down to the last minute before Zero, you can pull out--"

"I don't think so," said Scotty. "I don't think I'm going to pull out.
Not on this one."

       *       *       *       *       *

"_Zero minus twenty minutes--_"

The harsh metallic voice dragged Scotty back to the present with
a jolt. For a moment he had almost regained the old familiar burn
of self-assured bravado he had felt as he had finished talking to
the General that day and sauntered out toward the ship standing in
the launching scaffold. He had even been smiling as he recalled the
interview--

But now his eye caught the dull gleam of the control board before him,
and his smile faded.

The voice was whispering softly, deep inside his head: _Come off it,
Scotty. Who are you trying to kid?_

His hand trembled, and he leaned back, forcing his tense leg muscles to
relax. What do you mean, who am I trying to kid? he thought, angrily.
You're crazy. Would I be kidding myself? I quit kidding myself years
ago. I know what I'm up to. This is a journey for heroes, and I'm going
to be the hero, this time. _For sure._ This time there won't be any
doubt. _They_ won't have any doubt, and _I_ won't have any doubt--

_You're alone, Scotty. Remember? You can quit acting now._

He shuddered, and glanced uneasily around the tiny closed chamber.
Alone? What a laugh. A man can never be alone. There are always a
million memories, wheeling and spinning and roaring around inside your
head. Memories of people, of hopes and dreams and fears. You can build
a heavy wall in your mind to keep them back, but when you're alone, and
scared, and helpless, the wall starts to crumble down--

There's nobody to fool any more, Scotty. The act is over. Admit it,
you're scared, _you can hardly hold still you're so scared_--

He clapped his hands to his ears, trying to shut out the whisper. He
kept shaking his head, but it came through like a heavy surf. He sat
tense, trembling, with salty droplets pouring down his face, shaking
his head helplessly--

You're caught now, the voice whispered. This is a one-way ride, and you
know it, and you're _scared_--

"_I'm not!_"

The earphones clicked. "You say something, Scotty?"

Scotty took a deep breath, unclenching his hands. "No, no--nothing.
What's the Zero-count, Mitch?"

"Zero minus sixteen minutes. Everything set?"

"All set. I wish we could get going." Scotty twisted on the couch,
feeling the silence close down around him like a stifling blanket.
He was almost shouting to himself. All right, I'm scared! Wouldn't
anybody be scared? Sitting here, waiting, thinking about two hundred
thousand miles of nothing with a rocky world of death at the other end
to land on? Why shouldn't I be scared? They can stay back here, and
track me with their scopes and radar--it's fine for them. It's fine
for the Secretary of Defense, too--no skin off his back if something
happens. And the big boys in Hollywood can sit back at their desks and
rub their fat hands together and hope their cameras work all right,
hope the pictures come out good, so they can make their pile, _if I get
back_. Big gamble for them. FIRST MOON PICTURES RELEASED--SEE MAN'S
GREATEST ADVENTURE IN GLORIOUS TECHNICOLOR--AUTHENTIC FILMS FROM THE
FIRST MOON ROCKET--PRICES ONLY SLIGHTLY ADVANCED. Big gamble. Those
films will help pay for a lot of fuel, a lot of metal and man-hours
spent on this ship--

But can it pay for a life?

       *       *       *       *       *

Bitterness swept through Scotty's mind, sharply. It was _his_ life they
were bartering, _he_ was to be the star of those films--dead or alive.
He could be killed in the blast-off, and the films would keep rolling,
keep churning out the yardage, and thirty years later they could pick
up the film and still make their nice safe pile--thirty years of cold
death for him--

But why are you whining now, little man? Why all the tears, all of a
sudden? You asked for it. You made your bed, right from scratch. You
wanted to be the hero, nothing else would do. Well, here you are, Hero.
Tough. You asked for it--

But _why_?

And then something was tugging at his mind, seeping through the heavy
wall of memory. A terrible, loathsome thought. He shook his head,
desperately, trying to fight it back, but the wall began to crumble.
Long-dead pictures began drifting through, long-hidden memories. A bare
whisper of thought, cold, relentless, devastating. Admit it, Scotty.
_You had to come._ You had to be sitting in this seat; you couldn't do
anything else, could you? You couldn't let them know about you. You
couldn't bear to let the boys down on the field suspect the truth,
could you, Scotty? You looked into their eyes, and you were afraid they
suspected, like Matty had suspected, like Dad had suspected so many
years ago--You had to come here. _You couldn't help yourself, could
you?_

The whisper broke into a coarse, derisive laugh, and Scotty cowered
back, shaking his head in denial, his whole body trembling. _Take a
look, Scotty--take a good look!_ Are you trying to hide the truth from
_yourself_? But you can't get away with that. You can't hide it from
yourself any longer--

And then the wall of memory buckled, and split wide open. You can
fool the whole world, Scotty--but you can't fool yourself, the voice
screamed in his ear. You can run, and hide, and twist, and lie, but you
can't ever really fool yourself. You know it's true. You always have
known.

_You're a coward, Scotty. A dirty yellow coward. You always have been,
and you always will be--_

"_Zero minus ten minutes--_"

       *       *       *       *       *

It wasn't true. He shook his head helplessly as his fingers found the
safety belts, tightened them down fiercely on his chest and legs.
Wasn't he sitting here now, waiting for the last count, waiting to
start on the greatest adventure man had ever attempted? Would he be
_here_ if he were a coward? He snarled and clenched his fists tight on
the arm-rests. It was a lie, it _couldn't_ be true. No man can stare
himself in the face and call himself a coward when there is a spark
of life left in him at all. He can call himself a cheat, or a liar, or
a fake--those were things that could be changed, things that could be
made up for. But a coward had something wrong deep inside, something
that was built in, that could never be changed as long as a man lived.
No man could call himself _that_.

Scotty shook his head, half laughing, half crying. He was scared, sure.
Anybody would be scared. But he wasn't a coward. He was in this ship
because he wanted fame, because he craved excitement and adventure.
Nothing had made him volunteer. He'd done it because he was that kind
of guy--

But he knew that was a lie. Its very falsehood writhed in his brain as
he thought it. You're here because your cheap, cowardly little soul
couldn't bear to face itself. You're here because you couldn't bear
the looks of the men around you, with their barbed wise-cracks and
their guarded half-smiles. They thought you couldn't see them! But the
whispers were there, and you couldn't stand for them to guess--

But what did he care what _they_ thought? What were they to him? _He_
knew he was better than they were--quicker, smarter, braver. He didn't
have to prove anything to them--

_And Matty? Does Matty know how brave you are, Hero? Can you prove to
Matty that you're not a coward? Matty knows about you. Remember?_

Scotty shook his head, fearfully. That was so long ago--

But things like that are never long ago, Scotty. They stay with you as
long as you live. Sure, the Army said you were a hero, they gave you a
Silver Star--but what would Matty say--if he could ever say anything
again? Would _he_ say you were a hero?

Suddenly Matty's torn and twisted face seemed to be peering out at him
from the control panel. His mind went whirling back through the years,
completely out of control. In an instant he had slipped back fifteen
long years, back to the hot, stinking sweaty deadliness of that little
jungle island. They had been deep in the jungle that night, holed
in, scared to move, afraid even to breath. For a week they had been
waiting, waiting for the snipers to move in and spot them. He could
remember the cold, desperate fear that had gnawed at him that night
as he and Bill Matthews had clutched their rifles, waiting, creeping
forward along the jungle trail through the blackness and the night
sounds. His clothes had stuck to his body with sweat as they crept,
the sweat of mortal fear. The mosquitoes whined in clouds around his
head; his body stung with a thousand insect bites. Up ahead, somewhere
in the sticky blackness, was a machine-gun, blocking them from their
supplies, blocking them from the plasma and penicillin powder the
patrol needed more than any food or water. They had been waiting for
many days, and they were weak with hunger and thirst--but there was a
gun, and sharp, cruel eyes watching--

       *       *       *       *       *

They had been moving in pairs, and Scotty had felt the fear clutching
his chest, fear beyond any words. He and Matty were working their way
down a swampy river bottom, sliding on their bellies in the muck, when
they had spotted the nest. And then the fear and panic building up
inside him had broken through. He had jumped up, screaming, and burst
forward, gun chattering in his hand.

Blind rage and fear drove him forward as the startled gunners swivelled
their gun, piercing the night with their sharp cries. Matty had shouted
at him to get down, but he ran forward in the darkness, wildly. A burst
of fire screamed out at him through the jungle; he slid into the mud,
panting, still firing into the face of the blazing machine-gun, until
he saw the last man twist, and fall, and the gun fell silent.

A hero, they said. But later he had found Matty, lying twisted with his
head split open, a line of open holes cutting down through his neck and
across his shoulders--

Another few seconds, another instant of control would have given them
time to get the machine-gun in crossfire. But something had exploded in
Scotty's brain that night--a fear greater than any fear of being shot,
a fear of being exposed for what he was, what he knew he was. He had
dragged Matty back, through the long miles of sniper-ridden jungle, and
they called him a hero, and he had never told them who had broken first
and drawn the deadly fire--

His forehead stood out with sweat now, and he tried to hide his eyes.
He had spent many years forgetting that horrible night, trying to
cleanse himself of the depths of guilt that had eaten away at him--and
now it was back, harsh and undeniable, intensified by years of
self-deceit and self-justification and rationalization. But the chips
were down now. In a few moments a great fire would explode deep in
the bowels of this ship, and he would be driven forward, far out into
space, along trails never blazed by man.

"_Zero minus five minutes. Give her a final check, Scotty--_"

He jerked in his seat as though he had been struck. _Five minutes!_
His mind whirled with memories, and the cold fear cut through him like
a knife. In a moment of panic his mind was screaming, get out, now,
before it's too late! The General said you could pull out, right down
to the last minute--well, _pull out, now, before the engines start_--

But a peal of derisive laughter roared through his mind. There had been
reporters, news stories. He had said things that had been splashed
across a million newspapers. Back out now? Tell the world what a coward
he was? Then everybody would know--the boys down below, Matty, Dad--Dad
had never actually _said_ it, but it had always been there, as long as
Scotty could remember. He had tried and tried to make up for his small
size, for his skinny legs and bony chest.

It hadn't been his fault that Dad was such a big man, such a rugged,
powerful man. Those long hunting trips up through Canada--a man had to
share the load, there was no place for weakness and weariness there.
And Dad had taken him along, once, until he had tired, and turned his
ankle on a short portage. They had carried him out--and he knew that
he had lost his Dad that day. Dad hadn't admitted it, but it was true.
There was always the half-hidden disgust and sadness and disappointment
in his cool, grey eyes--

"_Minus two, Scotty. Final check--_"

His hand flicked out automatically, as fear and dismay welled up in his
mind. Everything he had ever done he had flubbed, somehow--he searched
frantically through his mind for one small, pure act of absolute
bravery, unadorned by words, unaltered by empty rationalizations and
built-up courage, and his mind yielded nothing but hoarse, heavy
laughter. Somewhere there was a key. It had started somewhere, if only
he could remember. Somewhere beneath the years of futile failure, there
was a core--

"_Sixty seconds, Scotty--Good luck, boy!_"

He froze, his hands clutching the safety belt in a grip of iron as the
words pounded in his ear: "--forty--thirty five--thirty--twenty five--"

And then, like a great door opening up in his mind, he remembered--

       *       *       *       *       *

A day so long ago, so deeply buried that it had not come to mind in
years. A day when he had been walking down a village street, on the way
to the store for his mother, a small boy, hardly ten--

A group of boys, appearing suddenly from the old garage he was passing.
A thin-faced lad, tall and sharp-boned, with cold eyes and a sneer
on his thin lips. Other boys, too, mostly bigger than he. His eyes
widened, and he started to back away when Thin-face grabbed his collar,
pulled him up sharp. "Where you think you goin', bud?"

"Just down the street--"

"Who said you could walk on this street?"

"It's not your street. I can walk where I want--"

A gleam of cruelty in Thin-face's eyes. "Sissy thinks he's smart." A
sharp-knuckled hand struck him across the nose. "You want to fight?"

Scotty shook his head, eyes wide. "No, I just want to--" His eye caught
one of the others, sidling around behind him--

"Stand still!"

He had been paralyzed. The rabbit-punch struck him a hammer-blow,
and tears streamed down his face. Thin-face hit him again, and blood
spurted from his nose. "Put up your hands and fight--"

"I can't--"

"You'd better fight, sissy--I'll kill ya!"

"I don't want to fight--" The fear, the mortification, the blind,
paralyzing fear. Another blow struck him, and he tumbled backwards
over the boy who had crouched behind him, and struck his head on the
sidewalk. They had roared with laughter, and one of them kicked him.
And then he was on his feet, darting between them, running for his
life, running with blind fear snarling at his heels, down an alley,
into a backyard, across into another alley--He had seen the open
cellarway, then, and crawled down in, heart pounding in his throat,
waiting as the boys came through the yard, looking, laughing at the
sport, walking on. He waited for hours before he dared come out, and
every minute of those hours he trembled, desperately sick and ashamed,
wondering what Dad would ever think of him if he should find out--

       *       *       *       *       *

Something struck him in the chest then, a firm, gentle pressure that
grew and grew as the cabin vibrated with a powerful roar. The pressure
grew larger, choking the breath from him. In a last terrible panic of
fear Scotty tried to fight his safety belt open, tried to cry out to
_stop, stop, stop_, but it was too late. He pressed back, deeper and
deeper into the couch as the age-long seconds ticked by--and in the
viewer the Earth fell away, farther and farther, dwindling, dimming--

He heard the explosion as the first stage disengaged, and his mind
froze as the pressure shoved harder at his chest. Then suddenly there
was a jerk, a bone-crushing jar that nearly broke his neck, and the
ship started spinning crazily.

"_Scotty--Scotty, can you hear me?_" It was Mitch's voice in the
earphones, heavy with frantic urgency. "_Can you hear me, Scotty?_"

Scotty groaned. "I can hear you," he croaked.

"Scotty, the second stage didn't disengage properly--you've got it on
your tail yet--"

Scotty gasped for breath, trying to focus his mind on the
present, trying to drive out the paralyzing phantoms of the past.
"Second--stage?"

"It--wait a minute--you're way off course--there it goes, you've
lost it--" There was a scraping sound in the earphones, and then the
General's voice snapped out, sharp and clear. "Scotty--listen, boy,
you're off course, you aren't out far enough--you'll have to orbit
back--"

"Orbit?" The word was wrenched from his throat, and he stared at the
viewer in horror.

"Listen, Scotty, get this straight--can you hear me, lad?"

"Yeah, yeah, I can hear--"

"Then listen. Orbit your ship. Slam down the cut-off and--"

"I can correct," Scotty cried. "I can get back on beam, and make it--"

"Scotty, you'd use too much fuel. You didn't get out far enough, you
dragged dead weight--"

"I can correct--"

"You'll never be able to land up there. If you do, you'll never be able
to take off again--"

"I've--got--to--get--out--there!"

The General's voice was frantic. "This is an order, man. _Orbit your
ship._ We'll find some way to get you down. But you'll have to come
back--"

Something exploded in Scotty's mind then. Rage bubbled over in his
mind, and he was screaming in the speaker, "I'm going on out. I'm going
to land up there--I can't flub it now, I can't--"

"Scotty, _orbit while you can_. There'll be another try--"

"I can't hear you--"

"_I said--_"

"_I'm going out._ Get somebody up there to get me if you want to, but
I'm going--"

He ripped off the earphones, the bitterness and rage and frustration
of long years welling into his mind. He was seething, almost crying
out in his rage. Everything he had ever done he had flubbed--but he
wouldn't flub this one. Fiercely, he went to work on the controls,
tears rolling down his cheeks as he worked. He was going to go on, if
it killed him--

       *       *       *       *       *

He felt the ship respond to its new course, slightly, and then,
gradually, the weight began to lift from his chest. He sank back,
panting. Up in the screen was a pale yellow ball, and he was racing
toward it as fast as a man could race. There would be plenty of time
for the sensitive calculations, for careful course-plotting, later. But
he was not going back.

They might get a ship up to get him in time--and again, they might not.
He had food and water for ten days at full rations. He could live for
thirty days on it. Maybe more. And when the rations were gone, how long
could he live then?

_How long did we live in the jungle without food or water?_

He sat back, then, and laughed. It would be better to die up there,
than to spend the rest of his life dying down on Earth. Dying every
day, a thousand thousand deaths--

They might be able to rescue him, with fast work, with a fearful margin
of incredible luck. But it didn't really matter to him now whether they
did or didn't. He knew that now. He had already died, back there on the
ground, waiting for the zero-count to come. He was reborn now, a new
man with a great, courageous job to do. This time he would do the job
right. Fear was behind him now, for he could never be afraid again like
he had been afraid a few short minutes before. The gauntlet was run.

He would land on the Moon, and no man nor memory would stop him from
doing it. No fear, no cowardice--

_Because a coward would have turned back--_

He settled back in the couch, and drifted into sleep with a peaceful
smile on his lips.