Jordan finally found Clements in the milling throng. They stood at the balcony rail staring fixedly at the Vanguard as the count progressed downward with what seemed dreadful slowness.

"How long _is_ a second, anyway?" growled Jordan peevishly.

The countdown proceeded to minus twenty minutes ... minus fifteen minutes. Then came the quick announcement, "The count is T minus twelve minutes and holding."

"Twelve minutes and holding?" repeated Jordan jumpily. "What does that mean?"

"It means," answered Clements with just a touch of superiority, "that they have stopped the count at T minus twelve minutes because something is wrong. It will delay the launch."

Jordan wrung his hands fretfully.

"Something wrong? I never heard of such a thing. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Oh," ventured Clements, "I suppose there are a few things about this rocket that could fail to function under unusual circ.u.mstances." He snubbed out his cigarette. "After all, your watch stops sometimes, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes," Jordan admitted sourly, "but never at T minus twelve minutes."

After a short time the bullhorn shook the area with the news that the count had resumed. Jordan borrowed Clements' binoculars and stared fixedly at the abandoned Vanguard. Suddenly he started violently. "My G.o.d, Clem," he yelled, "it's on fire! There's smoke flying out right there in the middle. Look!"

Clements took a quick glance.

"Relax, chief," he said rea.s.suringly. "It's oxygen coming from a vent.

They can't seal the oxygen tank till just before launch, or it'll blow up."

"Oh, it can't blow up," quavered Jordan, going to pieces. "But it will.

I feel it in my bones. It's going to blow up ... ker BOOM!"

Clements patted him on the back.

"Stop worrying, chief. It's going to work just fine. You wait and see."

Jordan shook his head in disbelief. "kerBOOM!" he said faintly.

The bullhorn announced T minus four minutes. To divert Jordan's attention Clements suggested that he watch the pilots of the photography ships who were about to board. With some difficulty Jordan focussed the instrument and observed the two pilots walk across the ap.r.o.n in front of the main operations building and climb into their small ships. A blue halo formed softly around the stern of each as they cut on the engines and brought them up to idle.

Then suddenly the count was a T minus ten seconds. 9 ... 8 ... 7 ... 6 Jordan thought he was going to faint ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 Zero!

There was a dazzling flash of igniting kerosene and lox which caused Jordan to jump into the air, a terrible burst of smoke and dust and then an overwhelming, harsh shattering roar such as had not disturbed Canaveral s.p.a.ce Port in more than a hundred years.

Deafened Clements looked at Jordan; saw his lips form the work "ker BOOM."

But in spite of all the evidence to the contrary the Vanguard was off the launcher, balancing with unbelievable, rocklike steadiness on that flickering, fiery column. Slowly, almost painfully the thing rose, gathered speed, pitched slowly eastward and bored triumphantly into the sky. Beside it, a thousand yards to the north and south, sped the photo ships, their drive haloes still scarcely brighter than when idling on the ground. With cameras whirring they escorted '58 Beta into s.p.a.ce for the second time.

There was considerable confusion, some hoa.r.s.e cheering and a great deal of milling around. Clements got a grip on Jordan and steered him to the AstroBar where two quick ones put him back together again.

"Now, what we should do," Clements suggested, "is to go down to the trajectory section and find out the latest word on the launch a.n.a.lysis."

Jordan hiccupped.

"Why?" he said, a little belligerently. "What's to a.n.a.lyze? We got it launched, didn't we? What more d'they want? Besides, I like it here."

Forty five minutes later the reports clattered in from Cairo and Woomera. In the Port Commander's private briefing room a young woman brought a sheaf of papers to the Commander. He began to read aloud. The audience leaned forward in strained attention.

"Preliminary flash report on the re-launch of satellite '58 Beta. The launch phase was eminently successful. The hold at T minus twelve minutes was not due to any malfunction in the missile itself, but rather to a disorder of another kind ... the engineer who was functioning as Launch Monitor had fainted in the blockhouse. The count was picked up under the direction of the a.s.sistant Launch Monitor. After launch the three stages of the rocket separated properly, and injection into orbit occurred at the predicted alt.i.tude."

He paused and shuffled the papers.

"Now I have here," he continued, dropping a sheet and picking it up, "the description of the orbit now occupied by '58 Beta. We have a perigee of six hundred twenty five miles and an apogee of twenty nine hundred miles, and ... oh, my word; this _is_ a tough break! Well, gentlemen, we can't win 'em all. As you know, we had hoped for a permanent orbit. However, according to our computers, while '58 Beta is now in an orbit, it is a degenerative one. She will unfortunately suffer a progressive perigee drop on each resolution and after three hundred forty eight years, seven months and approximately nineteen or twenty days she will re-enter the atmosphere and burn up. I am heartily sorry, gentlemen."

They returned to the AstroBar, and Clements began trying to catch up with Jordan.

"You know," said Jordan, his head wobbling a little with the emphasis he put into the words, "this is the d.a.m.nedest farce in the history of the world."

"You're absolutely right, chief," agreed Clements, taking another slug.

"And what are we going to do about it?"

Over his empty gla.s.s Jordan gave Clements a slow, confidential wink.

Then he fished some papers out of his pocket. He folded them carefully and slipped them into an envelope. Meticulously drying a spot on the bar with his coatsleeve he put down the envelope and began writing on it.

Finally he finished. Sealing it he waved it in the air in front of Clements.

"These," he said solemnly "are the resignation forms you got for me that day. Do you remember those resignation forms, Clements, you old appointee, you?"

Clements set his gla.s.s down indignantly.

"Certainly I remember, old chiefie. I remember because I got a set for myself while I was at it."

"Well, good for you, old appointee. Now, you take this envelope, and when we get back to Washington you put it in the office archives file, O.K.? Safest place this side of Fort Knox."

"Depend on me, chief," he said, taking the envelope and reading the instructions Jordan had written.

_To be held for the use of the Undersecretary for Cislunar Navigation inc.u.mbent in the year 2492._

"Good idea," said Clements. "Let's drink to the jerk ... O.K.?"

_Memo: 92 8574 27 October 2492_

_From: Secretary for Cislunar Navigation_

_To: Undersecretary_