The space
platform was a filling station in emptiness, at which the moon-rocket
would refuel for its next and longer and much less difficult journey of
two hundred thirty-odd thousand miles.
The stewardess came up the ramp, moving briskly. She stopped and glanced
at each passenger in each chair in turn. When Cochrane turned his open
eyes upon her, she said soothingly:
"There's no need to be disturbed. Everything is going perfectly."
"I'm not disturbed," said Cochrane. "I'm not even nervous. I'm perfectly
all right."
"But you should be drowsy!" she observed, concerned. "Most people are.
If you nap you'll feel better for it."
She felt his pulse in a businesslike manner. It was normal.
"Take my nap for me," said Cochrane, "or put it back in stock. I don't
want it. I'm perfectly all right."
She considered him carefully. She was remarkably pretty. But her manner
was strictly detached. She said:
"There's a button. You can reach it if you need anything. You may call
me by pushing it."
He shrugged. He lay still as she went on to inspect the other
passengers. There was nothing to do and nothing to see.
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