As the Ped-A-Ride neared the spaceport, the brilliant lights of the busy area merged into a hazy glare that brightened the night until it was almost as light as day. The slim prow of the _Orion_ reached higher into the sky than any other object on the vast field, even loftier than the giant control tower. “They say the _Orion_ is more space scarred than any other ship in the Space Service,” Garry remarked. “Meteor dust has grooved her sides so much that they look like the scratches on a rifle bullet.” “I knew she was one of the oldest crafts in the Service,” Patch said. “I guess she’s carried many a person to the Von Braun Station on their way to Luna and the other planets.” The Ped-A-Ride had nearly reached the gate of the spaceport when Garry said to his friend, “Patch, we’d better move down among those people ahead of us. It looks like they’re going to get off at the port.” “Why?” “If one of the port police spots us, he might get suspicious seeing a couple of kids alone at this time of night. If we mingle with the crowd, the police may think we are with them.” They got up and began walking forward along the moving platform. Then they took seats behind a man who wore the uniform of the Space Service. He had several bags, and it seemed likely that he was going to board the _Orion_. As the Ped-A-Ride neared the port gate, Garry closely studied the stalwart young man seated before them. Garry wondered at the many experiences that must have been encountered by this spaceman during his career. Garry leaned over and touched the spaceman on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Sir,” he said. “Are you boarding the _Orion_?” Garry saw a pleasant but deeply lined face turned upward toward his own. “Yes,” the astronaut replied, then asked, “Are you?” “Er, no, Sir,” Garry replied. “We—my friend and I—we just want to see her blast off.” The spaceman smiled. “Guess you are pretty interested in space to be coming all the way to the port just to see an old crate like the _Orion_ blast off.” “Yes, we are, Sir,” Garry replied. “I’m very interested in it. I hope to be a spaceman someday.” “I think you will be, too,” the man said confidently. “I can see the enthusiasm in your eyes.” “Thanks,” Garry returned. “Have you made many trips spaceward?” “A dozen or so,” was the reply. “The number is not important, though, you must understand. Usually, one voyage can last quite a while.” The spaceman extended a big, sunburned hand to Garry. “I’m First Space Officer Mulroy. What’s your name?” “Garry, Sir. Garry Coleman. My friend here is Patrick Foster, but he’s called Patch for short.” As the Ped-A-Ride neared the gate of the spaceport, Garry had an idea by which he and Patch might get inside without being questioned by the port police. “Mr. Mulroy,” Garry said, “I notice that you have some baggage. I wonder if Patch and I could help you carry it—maybe aboard the _Orion_.” The officer smiled. “You want to see what she looks like, eh? Okay, it’s a deal.”