The great ship lay sleekly quiet under the slanting sun, the
passengers like ants measured against its giant hull. Clink, clink,
clink went the coins into the counting box, the light over each seat
going on with the clink of the coin.
Then they were seated, the lights all on, and the tractor was pulling
the giant to the channelled runway, guarded by the blast walls.
_Milwaukee, here I come._
The whirr of the rolling wheels, the reverberations from the blast
walls, a crescendo of sound, and they were free of earth. An
accelerating, effortless flight, a faint tremor as they passed the
sonic barrier, then no sensory impressions at all.
Flight as free as the wind's passage but more silent. Through the
visacrys windows a blur of blue-green. Speed without strain, power
without tumult.
Doak relaxed and for the first time since the Chief's summons he
wasn't thinking of June. He was thinking of Man, from the cave to
Venus, from the wheel to free flight. And something out of his
childhood memory came to mind.
_Studious let me sit_
_And hold high converse with the mighty dead_
Where had he heard that? Some Scotch poet, it must have been, for his
mother recited only the Scotch poets. _Studious let me sit_--in front
of a video set, to watch the wrestling?
_And hold high converse with the mighty dead_--not in this world where
there was only tomorrow, not in this world of no books. There were no
writers on television--they had no need to attract an audience. They
_had_ an audience. An audience that would watch wrestling would watch
anything.
So the ad men took over the duties of the semi-writers who had
prepared the radio programs. Ad men offended nobody, even those with
denture breath. That could be cured and so could acne, B.O., straight
hair and seam squirrels.
_Hey!_ he though suddenly. _Watch where you're thinking, Doak Parker._
A government man, a Security Officer, he straightened in his seat as
the stewardess came along the aisle.