"James E. Gunn - Station In Space" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gunn James E)

There was no flame, and then we saw it spurting into the air from the exhaust tunnel several hundred feet
away. The ship balanced, unmoving, on a squat column of incandescence; the column stretched itself,
grew tall; the huge ship picked up speed and dwindled into a point of brightness.

The telescopic lenses found it, lost it, found it again. It arched over on its side and thrust itself seaward.
At the end of 84 seconds, the rear jets faltered, and our hearts faltered with them. Then we saw that the
first stage had been dropped. The rest of the ship moved off on a new fiery trail. A ring-shaped ribbon
parachute blossomed out of the third stage and slowed it rapidly.

The second stage dropped away 124 seconds later. The nose section, with its human cargo, its rescue
equipment, went on alone. At 63 miles altitude, the flaring exhaust cut out. The third stage would coast up
the gravitational hill more than a thousand miles.

Our stomachs were knotted with dread as the rescue ship disappeared beyond the horizon of the farthest
television camera. By this time, it was on the other side of the world, speeding toward a carefully planned
rendezvous with its sister.

Hang on, Rev! Don't give up!

Fifty-six minutes. That was how long we had to wait. Fifty-six minutes from the takeoff until the ship was
in its orbit. After that, the party would need time to match speeds, to send a space-suited crewman
drifting across the emptiness between, over the vast, eerily turning sphere of the Earth beneath.

In imagination, we followed them.

Minutes would be lost while the rescuer clung to the ship, opened the airlock cautiously so that none of
the precious remnants of air would be lost, and passed into the ship where one man had known utter
loneliness.

We waited. We hoped.
Fifty-six minutes. They passed. An hour. Thirty minutes more. We reminded ourselvesтАФand were
remindedтАФthat the first concern was Rev. It might be hours before we would get any real news.

The tension mounted unbearably. We waitedтАФa nation, a worldтАФfor relief.

At eighteen minutes less than two hoursтАФtoo soon, we told ourselves, lest we hope too muchтАФwe
heard the voice of Captain Frank Pickrell, who was later to become the first commander of the
Doughnut.

"I have just entered the ship," he said slowly. "The airlock was open." He paused. The implications
stunned our emotions; we listened mutely. "Lieutenant McMillen is dead. He died heroically, waiting until
all hope was gone, until every oxygen gauge stood at zero. And thenтАФwell, the airlock was open when
we arrived.

"In accordance with his own wishes, his body will be left here in its eternal orbit. This ship will be his
tomb for all men to see when they look up toward the stars. As long as there are men on Earth, it will
circle above them, an everlasting reminder of what men have done and what men can do.

"That was Lieutenant McMillen's hope. This he did not only as an American, but as a man, dying for all