"Sure, there could be others--if your yarn is true. Maybe they've tried to tell and nobody believed 'em. Or maybe they're keeping quiet. Maybe they don't want to make dopes out of Everson and his men. Maybe they want to keep 'em heroes. Now, gimme that story!" He flicked a switch on the dicto-typer. Words echoed in Jeffrey's brain. _Maybe they don't want to make dopes out of Everson and his men. Maybe they want to keep 'em heroes. It's a cinch they won't start cheering you for what you did almost twenty years ago._ The world has need of heroes, he thought. There's Luna, and then there are Venus and Mars and Jupiter and all the others; and, always, there are the stars. And, between, there are miles and years of darkness and loneliness, and courage is a candle flame too easily extinguished. Mankind will need songs of daring and tales of heroes and signposts to guide the way to infinity. You can't make heroes out of men whose very names are forgotten. You can't make heroes out of tired old bones. Jeffrey frowned as the hum of presses echoed in his ears. The great headlines would descend upon the enchanted city like a black tidal wave. They would swirl through the streets, devour the bright color, absorb the gay sound, suck the joy into dark waters of doubt and suspicion. The small-eyed man was shouting at him. He did not hear. _After all_, Jeffrey told himself, _this is for you. It's not for Everson and his men, really. It's for the pioneers, for those who dare to be first. The eyes are not on you, and the voices do not speak to you. Yet all this, really, is for you--for you were the first. Would you destroy this day that is yours?_ A voice was swearing at him. What a day it was! Why, it must be the greatest in the history of Earth. It was a day for all history books everywhere, always. It was a shame that the minutes were piling one upon the other so rapidly. How wonderful if they could be bottled and sealed like sweet perfume, to be dispensed slowly, a scent a month, a drop a year. Hands were tugging at his arm. He shook himself free. He turned back to the desk, seized the moon-stone and the photograph, replaced them in his pocket. Silently, head high, he strode past the naked, astonished faces. * * * * * Dusk. A silence blanketed the take-off field. The seconds hung in the air like bits of fire and ice. Captain George Everson, the man with no legs, waved to the multitude as he entered his silver rocket. Presently there was a sound of thunder, and the land trembled. Flame belched from the stern of the _Lunar Lady_. Slowly, the rocket began to rise. The multitude drew back, like frightened red ghosts in the fiery glare from the grumbling jets. A greater avalanche of flame spewed from the rocket. A furnace-hot wind shrilled over the field, lashing at hair and clothing, at banner and flag.