uniform for the first time this morning. There were only eight such
uniforms in the world, so far. It was black whipcord, with an Eisenhower
jacket, narrow silver braid on the collar and cuffs, and a silver rocket
for a badge where a plane pilot wears his wings. It was strictly
practical. Against accidental catchings in machinery, the trousers were
narrow and tucked into ten-inch soft leather boots, and the wide leather
belt had flat loops for the attachment of special equipment. Its width
was a brace against the strains of acceleration. Sally had had much to
do with its design.

But it hadn't yet been decided by the Pentagon whether the Space
Exploration Project would be taken over by the Army or the Navy or the
Air Corps, so Joe wore no insignia of rank. Technically he was still a
civilian.

The deep-toned noise to the south had become a howl, sweeping closer and
trailed by other howlings.

"The pushpots are on the way over, as you can hear," said the major
detachedly, in the curious light of daybreak and electric bulbs
together. "Your crew is up and about. So far there seems to be no hitch.
You're feeling all right for the attempt today?"

"If you want the truth, sir, I'd feel better with about ten years'
practical experience behind me. But my gang and myself--we've had all
the training we can get without an actual take-off. We're the
best-trained crew to try it. I think we'll manage."

"I see," said the major. "You'll do your best."