Crag stared at the analog, biting his lip, feeling the emotion surge inside him. It grew to a tumult. "Skipper!" Prochaska's voice was startled. "For God's sake ... look!" Crag swung his eyes to the scope. The blip representing Pickering had cut their flight path, slicing obliquely through their wake. At its tremendous speed only the almost total absence of air molecules kept the satelloid from turning into a blazing torch. Down ... down ... plunging to meet the death roaring up from the Pacific. They followed it silently. A brief flare showed on the scope. They looked at the screen for a long moment. "He was a brave man," Prochaska said simply. "A pile of guts." Crag got on the communicator. Gotch listened. When he had finished, Gotch said: "After this, Commander, follow ground orders. You damned near fouled up the works. I don't want to see that happen again." "Yes, Sir, but I couldn't have expected that move." "What do you think Pickering was up there for?" Gotch asked softly. "He knew what he was doing. That was his job. Just like the couple that got bumped at the Blue Door. It's tough, Commander, but some people have to die. A lot have, already, and there'll be a lot more." He added brusquely, "You'll get your chance." The communicator was silent for a moment. "Well, carry on." "Aye, aye, Sir," Crag said. He glanced over his shoulder. Larkwell was leaning over in his seat, twisting his body to see out the side port. His face was filled with the wonder of space. Nagel didn't stir. His eyes were big saucers in his white, thin face. Crag half expected to see his lips quiver, and wondered briefly at the courage it must have taken for him to volunteer. He didn't seem at all like the hero type. Still, look at Napoleon. You could never tell what a man had until the chips were down. Well, the chips _were_ down. Nagel better have it. He turned reflectively back to the forward port thinking that the next two days would be humdrum. Nothing would ever seem tough again. Not after what they had just been through. Prochaska fell into the routine of calling out altitude and speed. Crag listened with one part of his mind occupied with Pickering's sacrifice. Would he have had the courage to drive the satelloid into the warhead? Did it take more guts to do that than to double for a man slated to be murdered? He mulled the questions. Plainly, Step One was jammed with heroes. "Altitude, 1,000 miles, speed, 22,300." Prochaska whispered the words, awe in his voice. They looked at each other wordlessly.