Mel Cramer stared at him. "This isn't a Japanese kamikaze pilot you're talking to! This is Mel Cramer. I was an ace as a kid in Korea, and nobody ever accused me of being yellow, but I didn't sign up for _this_ job to commit suicide. That isn't the way we do it. That's why I'm carrying rockets instead of a warhead full of tetryl. And it's why we win wars; we don't sacrifice the men we've got; we give 'em every chance." Walter Stanton said: "It's not my prerogative to ask you to sacrifice yourself. It's just that.... This project...." "Everybody on this project is a volunteer." "It isn't _us_; it's the Platform." "Everybody on the Platform is a volunteer," Mel Cramer repeated doggedly. "Everyone knew the chances he was taking. And there isn't a one of them who loves his wife and kid anymore than I do." Through the sickness of his disappointment, Walter Stanton forced a grin. "OK, Mel. My love to Marge when you get to Sandia; and tell Lynne ... tell her...." "I'll tell her you'll be back on Cargo One by tomorrow," Mel Cramer said. "If," he added softly, "I make it to Sandia Base, and if Sandia Base is still there...." Cramer glanced through the port at the mechanic waiting to help him into the tiny fighter, shivered a little, snapped on his helmet and stepped out to the catwalk. Walter Stanton watched through the port as the huge air-lock opened and Mel Cramer eased the _Mistress_ out. She nestled next to the Platform like a small, angry wasp near a hive, power off, waiting for intercept data from Goldstein in Control. Walter Stanton felt a chill race up his back. He started up the ladder. * * * * * Goldstein had flicked on the remote telescreen and was watching it, with one eye on the PPI scope. The screen came to life, and Walter Stanton saw a clear picture of Space One as Mel Cramer pointed the _Mistress_ at the platform to aid in focussing. "OK, Colonel," Goldstein said. "Screen controls locked." "Screen controls locked," Mel Cramer's voice repeated. The image of Space One disappeared from the screen as the _Mistress_ swung to the East, paralleling the motion of the platform in space, ready to add its speed to that of the artificial satellite. "Heading zero-nine-zero," said Cramer. "Ready to launch." "Blast for ten seconds," said Goldstein, "and stand by for intercept information." "Blasting." Cramer's voice seemed strained. Then: "Power off! Swinging!" Walter Stanton stared at the telescreen, a duplicate of Mel's screen, and the very eyes of the _Mistress_, since her windshield would be covered against the sandblasting meteoric dust until the last seconds of the firing run. The time seemed to press on the back of his neck, and he felt his head ache with the strain. The ventilators moaned. Goldstein spoke suddenly. "Missile eight hundred miles earthward, rate of closure 480 knots, twelve o'clock from you." His voice rose slightly. "Have you got it, Colonel? Is it on your screen?"