For a minute Frank Nelsen suffered the awful anguish of indecision over a joke of circumstance. Like most of the others, he had tried to get into the Force. He had given it up as hopeless. Now, when he was ready to move out on his own, the chance came. Exquisite irony. Frank felt the lift of maybe being one of--well--the Chosen. To wear the red, black and silver rocket emblem, to use the finest equipment, to carry out dangerous missions, to exercise authority in space, and yet to be pampered, as those who make a mark in life are pampered. "_Que milagro!_--holy cow!" Ramos breathed. "Charlie--Frankie--congratulations!" Frank saw the awed faces around them. They were looking up to him and Charlie in a friendly way, but already he felt that he had kind of lost them by being a little luckier. Or was this all goof ball sentiment in his own mind, to make himself feel real modest? So maybe he got sentimental about this impoverished, ragtag Bunch that, even considering J. John Reynolds' help, still were pulling themselves up into space almost literally by their own bootstraps. He had always belonged to the Bunch, and he still did. So perhaps he just got sore. Charlie's and his eyes met for a second, in understanding. "Thanks, Postman Roy," Charlie said. "Only you were right the first time. These letters shouldn't be delivered until your next trip around, tomorrow morning." They both handed the envelopes back to Roy Harder. The voices of their Bunch-mates jangled in a conflicting chorus. "Ah--yuh damfools!" Two-and-Two bleated. "Good for them!" Art Kuzak said, perhaps mockingly. "Hey--they're us--they'll stay with us--shut up--didn't we lose enough people, already?" Gimp said. Frank grinned with half of his mouth. "We always needed a name," he remarked. "How about _The Planet Strappers_? Hell--if the chairborne echelon of the U.S.S.F. is so slow and picky, let 'em go sit on a sunspot." "I need some white paint and a brush, Paul," Ramos declared, running into the shop. In a couple of minutes more, the name for the Bunch was crudely and boldly lettered on the sides of both trucks. "Salute your ladies, shake hands with your neighbors, and then let's get moving," Charlie Reynolds laughed genially. And so they did. Old Paul Hendricks, born too soon, blinked a little as he grinned, and slapped shoulders. "On your way, you lucky tramps...!" There were quick movements here and there--a kiss, a touch of hands, a small gesture, a strained glance. Frank Nelsen blew a kiss jauntily to Nance Codiss, the neighbor girl, who waved to him from the background. "So long, Frank..." He wondered if he saw a fierce envy showing in her face. Miss Rosalie Parks, his high school Latin teacher, was there, too. Old J. John Reynolds appeared at the final moment to smile dryly and to flap a waxy hand.