He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tense from the strain of trying to make her understand. Now he relaxed--more--he slumped--and something began to die in his face, and the first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it would not return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in the almost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know. "I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot," he said quietly. "The Foo Is a means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into any plant in the States--Douglas, North American, Boeing--_any_ of them--and pick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have as good as said so. After that--" His voice had regained some of its former animation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. "I've told you all this before." The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back to her, and put her fingers around his wrist. "Darling!" she said. "If it's that _rocket_ pilot business again...." Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. "It's always 'that _rocket_ pilot business,'" he said, mimicking her voice. "Damn it, I'm the only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and math than anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words like brennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of _Colliers_, and I--" He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shrugged again. "I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job, and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait a long time." All she could think of to say was, "But, Darling, there _aren't_ any man-carrying rockets." "That's not my fault," he said, and walked away from her. A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line with a scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest. He brought the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running rings around the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out of the crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face and in his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, and huskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. And he was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his hands moved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave an impromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to the personnel bunker with him. Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four years ago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent now on throwing himself away to the sky. She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of the press section and ran over to him. "Marty!" She brushed past a technician.