The door of the office creaked open, letting in a gust of chilly air. Jimmy Baldwin shut the door behind him and looked at them vacantly. "Nice night to go to Mars," he said. "You shouldn't be up here, Jimmy," said Alexander gently. "You should be down at the base, tending to your flowers." "There're lots of flowers on Mars," said Jimmy. "Maybe someday I'll go to Mars and see." "Wait until somebody else goes first," said Palmer bitterly. Jimmy turned about, hesitantly, like a man who had a purpose but had forgotten what it was. He moved slowly toward the door and opened it. "I got to go," he said. The door closed heavily but the chill did not vanish from the room. For it wasn't the chill of the mountain's peak, but another kind of chill ... a chill that had walked in with Jimmy Baldwin and now refused to leave. Palmer tipped the bottle, sloshed the whiskey in the glass. "The greatest pilot that ever lived," he said. "Now look at him!" "He still holds the record," Alexander reminded the radio operator. "Eight times to the Moon and still alive." The accident had happened as Jimmy's ship was approaching Earth on that eighth return trip. A tiny meteor had struck the hull, drilling a sharp-cut hole. It had struck Andy Mason, Jimmy's best friend, squarely between the eyes. The cabin had been filled with the scream of escaping air, had turned cold with the deadly breath of space and frost crystals had danced in front of Jimmy's eyes. Somehow Jimmy had patched the hole in the hull, had reached Earth in a smashing rocket drive, knowing he had little air, that every minute was a borrowed eternity. Most pilots would have killed themselves or blown up their ships in that reckless race for Earth, but Jimmy, ace of all the space-men of his day, had made it. But he had walked from the ship with a blank face and babbling lips. He still lived at the rocket camp because it was home to him. He puttered among his flowers. He watched the rockets come and go without a flutter of expression. And everyone was kind to him, for in his face they read a fate that might be theirs. "All of us are crazy," said Scott. "Everyone of us. Myself included. That's why I'm blasting off alone." "I refuse to let you go," said Alexander firmly. Scott rested his knuckles on the desk. "You can't stop me. I have my orders to make the trip. Whether I go alone or with an assistant pilot makes no difference. That rocket blasts on time, and I'm in it when it goes." "But it's foolishness," protested Alexander. "You'll go space-mad. Think of the loneliness!" "Think of the coordinates," snapped Scott. "Delay the blast-off and you have to work out a set of new ones. Days of work and then it'll be too late. Mars will be too far away." Alexander spread his hands. "All right then. I hope you make it." Scott turned away but Alexander called him back. "You're sure of the routine?"