She led the way up, and stopped.
"This is your seat, Mr. Cochrane," she said professionally. "I'll strap
you in this first time. You'll do it later."
Cochrane lay down in a contour-chair with an eight-inch mattress of foam
rubber. The stewardess adjusted straps. He thought bitter, ironic
thoughts. A voice said:
"Mr. Cochrane!"
He turned his head. There was Babs Deane, his secretary, with her eyes
very bright. She regarded him from a contour-chair exactly opposite his.
She said happily:
"Mr. West and Mr. Jamison are the science men, Mr. Cochrane. I got Mr.
Bell as the writer."
"A great triumph!" Cochrane told her. "Did you get any idea what all
this is about? Why we're going up?"
"No," admitted Babs cheerfully. "I haven't the least idea. But I'm going
to the moon! It's the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me!"
Cochrane shrugged his shoulders. Shrugging was not comfortable in the
straps that held him. Babs was a good secretary. She was the only one
Cochrane had ever had who did not try to make use of her position as
secretary to the producer of the Dikkipatti Hour on television. Other
secretaries had used their nearness to him to wangle acting or dancing
or singing assignments on other and lesser shows.
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