"See you," said Mitch. He looked back down at the helmet and was turning it over and over again when Johnny left. * * * * * The Observation B-52 climbed, screaming. Johnny lit a cigarette and watched out the port at the contrails rolling straight and white behind the jets. He sat by the radioman, a Sergeant, ignoring the rest of the officers in the converted bomb-bay. "Hope he makes it, Colonel," said the Sergeant. "He'll make it," Johnny said flatly, irritated. Relenting, he added in a gentler tone, "The pilot section breaks away. If he gets in serious trouble, he can dump it and ride the nose down. Like a bird. He'll make it." There was a raucous buzz, and a squawk box said: "On my mark it will be Zero minus four minutes ... mark!" The voice of Control, 35,000 feet below. The B-52 swung ponderously onto the base leg of its circle, and there was a creaking of stretching metal inside. "Minus two minutes." _Not my day, anyway_, Johnny thought. He lit another cigarette. "Control," said a new voice, "This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Red Flight is in position." "Rog, Red Leader," Control acknowledged. The Observation flight of jet fighters was waiting, too. "Minus five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... mark!" Silence. _I had a true wife but I left her ... oh, oh, oh._ There was another rattle of the speaker, and Mitch's voice came through, grunting, heavy, as the acceleration of the Ship laid a heavy hand on his chest. "Acceleration ... eight gee ... controls respond." Silence. "There he is," someone said. A wavering trail of smoke was barely visible below, a thread of white, coming up fast, blown erratically by winds into a distorted tiny snake. "Altitude ..." said Mitch's voice, "40,000.... Acceleration ... dropping." The white snake wriggled up to their level, rose above them. Johnny could not see the silver head. "Altitude ... 65,000.... I have a loud, very high buzz in my headphones. I'm going to--there, it's gone now, went out of my range." His voice sounded wrong to Johnny, but he couldn't pin it down. "Altitude ... 105,000. Beginning orbital correction. Beginning--beginning ... I can't--I'm--I'm--" The voice became unintelligible. It was pitched very high, like a woman's, and it sounded as if his teeth were chattering. "Mitch," Johnny pleaded softly. "Mitch, baby. Dump it, boy, come on home, now. Dump it." There was no more from the speaker. A confused babble broke out in the bomb-bay. The Sergeant fiddled with his dials frantically, spinning across wavelengths, trying to find a word. The confusion ceased when the speaker rattled again, seeming hours later. "Uh, hello, Control, this is Red Three, do you read me?" One of the fighter flight. "Rog, Red Three, go ahead," came Control's voice from below. "Uh, Control, I have a flash and smoke cloud on a bearing of three-seven degrees." "Red Three, what altitude? What altitude?" "None," said the fighter pilot. "On the deck."