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switched the televiewer off again and thought about getting up. We were due to be called at 5 am. At that time, precisely, the intercom speaker clicked on and the usual official, precise voice greeted me with a commentary on the weather and the expected rise in temperature at noon. I wondered why. It was no concern of ours. We would not be here to feel it. Heaven knows what we would be feeling at noon, Luna City time, away out there thousands of miles above the surface of the turning globe where time stood still and noon was always with us.
    Perhaps I had mistaken the day. Maybe this was not Z day after all but just another in the long training schedule. But the voice soon put me right. “Take-off time is zero minus two hours,” it announced. “Breakfast will be served early, at 0530 hours. Crew suits will be worn and all personnel will assemble in the briefing room at 0600 hours precisely. That is all, gentlemen. Thank you, and good luck.” The last three words were said with a warmth that was completely alien to the voice as I had known it during the last nine months.
    I shaved, zipped on my crew suit and made my way to the dining room to find the other three already there. Breakfast, the last hot meal we expected to have for nearly a month, was eaten in an air of forced cheerfulness and good humour.
    Afterwards we assembled in the briefing room for our final instructions, said goodbye to chiefs of various departments and, with handshakes all round, made our way to the crew jeep which was waiting outside.
    The door opened to a ring of cheers, for every worker not engaged in take-off routine was out there to see us off. They swarmed round the jeep as we got into it. The roar we got as we moved off towards the launching platform must have been heard at Alice Springs.
    Lemmy, who had been a little subdued and less talkative than the rest of us, brightened up considerably during this spontaneous demonstration and wore a beaming smile as he turned in his seat to wave goodbye. As we sped towards the launching site the crowd broke up and the men who had composed it began to race towards the main underground shelter to race for the best seats in front of the televiewer.
    We reached the launching platform within five minutes. The control room director was waiting for us. He accompanied us up the steps of the launching apron as far as the elevator which was enclosed within the labyrinth of steel scaffolding. The elevator was merely a platform. It had no sides and no roof.
    As we began to ascend, the controller yelled his goodbyes and good-lucks at us and we yelled and waved back. Three faint cheers came up to us from the guards who had formed a tight little group down on the ground and were waving their bush hats to punctuate the timing of their cheers.
    “Goodbye, Earth,” said Lemmy. “I’ve set foot on you for the last time.”
    “Not the last time,” said Jet.
    “It feels like the last time.”
    The walls of steel rods went flashing past. About half a mile to the south three rockets soared into the air and burst into a shower of red sparks which fell to the ground like a great meteoric display. It was the first signal; the first warning that take-off was near and that the launching area must now be cleared.
    The elevator jolted to a stop. The entrance to the air lock stood open, its door folded back into the ship. We could see Luna City spread out below us, see the lights of the jeep which had brought us receding into the darkness as it carried the guards towards the viewing shelters. The controller’s car made its way to the control room and disappeared into the underground park.
    We were now alone. Utterly alone. The only men in the area with their heads above ground.
    “All right, we don’t need to stand here admiring the view,” said Jet. “Let’s get inside.”
    We clumped our way across the wooden platform, through the circular opening and on to the steel floor of the airlock. There was just about enough