The forward jets spoke once, and softly. Spearman said, "Out of orbit.
We start braking sooner than you think. Then we'll know...."
The depth of quiet was a depth of eternity. Time to reflect--to
marvel, if you wished. One hundred and eleven years since Hiroshima,
which the inveterate insanity of history textbooks sometimes referred
to as a great experiment. Eighty-five years since the first-manned
spaceport; seventy since the founding of stations on Luna and Mars.
But to Paul Mason a greater marvel was the responding warmth of the
woman, the brooding charity of the old man, whose lives were upheld
with him in this silent nothing, dependent on the magic bundle of
muscle and nerve that was himself. _What is love?_
The greater spaceport had been twelve years in building. Then _Argo_.
More than a century from early rocket experiments to the mile-long
factories turning out charlesite. In that century man had even added
to his morsels of self-knowledge a trifle more than he possessed in
the days of flint ax and reeking cave. "We are in atmosphere," said
the earphones.... _Time: a cerebral invention? How long is a May fly's
life to a May fly...?_ "Braking starts in forty-five seconds. Warn the
others."
Paul shoved down the mouthpiece, echoing the message. Wright said,
"Six pushed-around people. The arrogance of man! Doing fine, Paul."
Pressure--not too bad. A long roaring. But then the stars....
The stars went mad. A glare--a cruel second of the light of the star
that was now the sun and a flicker of red-green, not real. The roaring
paused. Stopped.