Ramos was unbelievably glum for days. But he worked harder building air-restorers than most of the Bunch had ever worked before. "We're hardcore, now--we'll last," he would growl. "Final, long lap--March, April and May--with no more interruptions. In June, when our courses at Tech are finished, we'll be ready to roll..."

That was about how it turned out. Near the end of May, the Bunch lined up in the shop, the ten blastoff drums they had made, including two spares. The drums were just large tubes of sheet magnesium, in which about everything that each man would need was compactly stowed: Archer Five, bubb, sun-powered ionic drive motor, air-restorer, moisture-reclaimer, flasks of oxygen and water, instruments, dehydrated foods, medicines, a rifle, instruction manuals, a few clothes, and various small, useful items. Everything was cut to minimum, to keep the weight down. The lined up drums made a utilitarian display that looked rather grim.

The gear was set out like this, for the safety inspectors to look at during the next few days, and provide their stamp of approval.

The blastoff tickets had also been purchased--for June tenth.

"Well, how do you think the Bunch should travel to New Mexico, Paul?"

Frank Nelsen joshed.

"Like other Bunches, I guess," Paul Hendricks laughed. "A couple of moving vans should do the trick..."

III

On June first, ten days before blastoff, David Lester came back to the shop, sheepishness, pleasure and worry showing in his face.

"I cleared up matters at home, guys," he said. "And I went to Minneapolis and obtained one of these." He held up the same kind of s.p.a.ce-fitness card that the others had.

"The tests are mostly pa.s.sive," he explained further. "Anybody can be whirled in a centrifuge, or take a fall. That is somewhat simpler, in its own way, than clinging to a careening motor scooter. Though I do admit that I was still almost rejected...! So, I'll join you, again--if I'm permitted? I understand that my old gear has been completed, as a spare? Paul told me. Of course I'm being crusty, in asking to have it back, now?"

"Uh-uh, Les--I'm sure that's okay," Ramos grunted. "Right, fellas?"

The others nodded.

A subdued cheerfulness seemed to possess Lester, the mamma's boy, as if he had eased and become less introverted. The Bunch took him back readily enough, though with misgivings. Still, the mere fact that a companion could return, after defeat, helped brace their uncertain morale.

"I'll order you a blastoff ticket, Les," Frank Nelsen said. "In one of the two GOs--ground-to-orbit rockets--reserved for us. The s.p.a.ce is still there..."

David Lester had won a battle. He meant to win through, completely.

Perhaps some of this determination was transmitted to the others.

Two-and-Two Baines, for example, seemed more composed.

There wasn't much work to do during those last days, after the equipment had been inspected and approved, the initials of each man painted in red on his blastoff drum, and all the necessary doc.u.ments put in order.

Mitch Storey rode a bus to Mississippi, to say goodbye to his folks. The Kuzaks flew to Pennsylvania for the same reason. Likewise, Gimp Hines went by train to Illinois. Ramos rode his scooter all the way down to East Texas and back, to see his parents and a flock of younger brothers and sisters. When he returned, he solemnly gave his well-worn vehicle to an earnest boy still in high school.

"No dough," Ramos said. "I just want her to have a good home."

Those of the Bunch who had families didn't run into any serious last minute objections from them about their going into s.p.a.ce. Blasting out was getting to be an accepted destiny.

There was a moment of trouble with Two-and-Two Baines about a kid of eight years named Chippie Potter, who had begun to hang around Hendricks' just the way Frank Nelsen had done, long ago. But more especially, the trouble was about Chippie's fox terrier, Blaster.

"The lad of course can't go along with us, Out There, on account of school and his Mom," Two-and-Two said sentimentally, on one of those final evenings. "So he figures his mutt should go in his place. Shucks, maybe he's right! A lady mutt first made it into orbit, ahead of any people, remember? And we ought to have a mascot. We could make a sealed air-conditioned box and smuggle old Blaster. Afterwards, he'd be all right, inside a bubb."

"You try any stunt like that and I'll shoot you," Frank Nelsen promised.

"Things are going to be complicated enough."

"You always tell me no, Frank," Two-and-Two mourned.

"I know something else," said Joe Kuzak--he and his tough twin had returned to Jarviston by then, as had all the others who had visited their homes. "There's a desperate individual around, again. Tiflin. He appealed his test--and lost. Kind of a good guy--someways..."

The big Kuzaks, usually easy and steady and not too comical, both had a certain kind of expression, now--like amused and secretive gorillas.

Frank wasn't sure whether he got the meaning of this or not, but right then he felt sort of sympathetic to Tiflin, too.

"I didn't hear anything; I won't say or do anything," he laughed.

Afterwards, under the pressure of events, he forgot the whole matter.

It would take about thirty-six hours to get to the New Mexico s.p.a.ceport.

Calculating accordingly, the Bunch hoisted their gear aboard two canvas-covered trucks parked in the driveway beside Hendricks', just before sundown of their last day in Jarviston.

People had begun to gather, to see them off. Two-and-Two's folks, a solid, chunky couple, looking grave. David Lester's mother, of course, seeming younger than the Bunch remembered her. Make-up brought back some of her good-looks. She was more Spartan than they had thought, too.

"I have made up a basket of sandwiches for you and your comrades, Lester," she said.

Otto Kramer was out with free hotdogs, beer and Pepsi, his face sad. J.

John Reynolds, backer of the Bunch, had promised to come down, later.

Chief of Police, Bill Hobard, was there, looking grim, as if he was half glad and half sorry to lose this pa.s.sel of law-abiding but worrisome young eccentrics. There were various cynical and curious loafers around, too. There were Chippie Potter and his mutt--a more wistful and worshipping pair would have been hard to imagine.

Sophia Jameson, one of Charlie Reynolds' old flames, was there. Charlie had sold his car and given away his wardrobe, but he still managed to look good in a utilitarian white coverall.

"Well, we had a lot of laughs, anyway, you big ape!" Sophia was saying to Charlie, when Roy Harder, the mailman with broken-down feet, shuffled up, puffing.

"One for you, Reynolds," he said. "Also one for you, Nelsen. They just came--ordinarily I wouldn't deliver them till tomorrow morning. But you see how it is."

A long, white envelope was in Frank Nelsen's hands. In its upper left-hand corner was engraved:

UNITED STATES s.p.a.cE FORCE RECRUITING SECTION WASHINGTON, D.C.

"Jeez, Frankie--Charlie--you made it--open 'em, quick!" Two-and-Two said.

Frank was about to do so. But everybody knew exactly what was inside such an envelope--the only thing that was ever so enclosed, unless you were already in the Force. An official summons to report, on such and such a date and such and such a place, for examination.

For a minute Frank Nelsen suffered the awful anguish of indecision over a joke of circ.u.mstance. Like most of the others, he had tried to get into the Force. He had given it up as hopeless. Now, when he was ready to move out on his own, the chance came. Exquisite irony.

Frank felt the lift of maybe being one of--well--the Chosen. To wear the red, black and silver rocket emblem, to use the finest equipment, to carry out dangerous missions, to exercise authority in s.p.a.ce, and yet to be pampered, as those who make a mark in life are pampered.

"_Que milagro!_--holy cow!" Ramos breathed.

"Charlie--Frankie--congratulations!"

Frank saw the awed faces around them. They were looking up to him and Charlie in a friendly way, but already he felt that he had kind of lost them by being a little luckier. Or was this all goof ball sentiment in his own mind, to make himself feel real modest?

So maybe he got sentimental about this impoverished, ragtag Bunch that, even considering J. John Reynolds' help, still were pulling themselves up into s.p.a.ce almost literally by their own bootstraps. He had always belonged to the Bunch, and he still did. So perhaps he just got sore.