The cab touched ground.  Cochrane stood up and paid the fare.  He got out and the cab rose four or five feet and flitted over to the waiting-line.

He went into the space-port building.  He felt himself growing more bitter still.  Then he found Bill Holden—­Doctor William Holden—­standing dejectedly against a wall.

“I believe you’ve got some orders for me, Bill,” said Cochrane sardonically.  “And just what psychiatric help can I give you?”

Holden said tiredly: 

“I don’t like this any better than you do, Jed.  I’m scared to death of space-travel.  But go get your ticket and I’ll tell you about it on the way up.  It’s a special production job.  I’m roped in on it too.”

“Happy holiday!” said Cochrane, because Holden looked about as miserable as a man could look.

He went to the ticket desk.  He gave his name.  On request, he produced identification.  Then he said sourly: 

“While you’re working on this I’ll make a phone-call.”

He went to a pay visiphone.  And again there were different levels of awareness in his mind—­one consciously and defensively cynical, and one frightened at the revelation of his unimportance, and the third finding the others an unedifying spectacle.

He put the call through with an over-elaborate confidence which he angrily recognized as an attempt to deceive himself.  He got the office.  He said calmly: 

“This is Jed Cochrane.  I asked for a visiphone contact with Mr. Hopkins.”

He had a secretary on the phone-screen.  She looked at memos and said pleasantly: 

“Oh, yes.  Mr. Hopkins is at dinner.  He said he couldn’t be disturbed, but for you to go on to the moon according to your instructions, Mr. Cochrane.”

Cochrane hung up and raged, with one part of his mind.  Another part—­and he despised it—­began to argue that after all, he had better wait before thinking there was any intent to humiliate him.  After all, his orders must have been issued with due consideration.  The third part disliked the other two parts intensely—­one for raging without daring to speak, and one for trying to find alibis for not even raging.  He went back to the ticket-desk.  The clerk said heartily: 

“Here you are!  The rest of your party’s already on board, Mr. Cochrane.  You’d better hurry!  Take-off’s in five minutes.”

Holden joined him.  They went through the gate and got into the tender-vehicle that would rush them out to the rocket.  Holden said heavily: 

“I was waiting for you and hoping you wouldn’t come.  I’m not a good traveller, Jed.”

The small vehicle rushed.  To a city man, the dark expanse of the space-port was astounding.  Then a spidery metal framework swallowed the tender-truck, and them.  The vehicle stopped.  An elevator accepted them and lifted an indefinite distance through the night, toward the stars.  A sort of gangplank with a canvas siderail reached out across emptiness.  Cochrane crossed it, and found himself at the bottom of a spiral ramp inside the rocket’s passenger-compartment.  A stewardess looked at the tickets.  She led the way up, and stopped.