Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition — page 130: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

128 A speaker rose and the crowd hushed expectantly, waiting to hear magic words from the many amplifiers surrounding them. The man spoke, but James Maxwell did not listen. The voice boomed out over the. sun- swept listening crowd, and the tall spaceship watched the sun go down the sky and it stretched an impatient shadow-finger across the people who came to pay it homage. The man spoke of the glories of the conquest of space, the glorious infancy of space travel. Space travel was indeed young, James Maxwell knew, a mere twenty years, enough to mature a fast-grow- ing science—and enough to age a man. The thought was sheer torture, and he fought to subdue it. This was hardly the way to put the thought from his mind, though. Not by being here beside this enormous needle pointing the direction to heaven. Not by feeling its enormity so close and personal, towering significantly over the cogs that had made its existence possible. : James Maxwell let his gaze wander up, up, up along the smooth metallic contours, beyond the hundreds of tons of steel and quartz and wire and plutonium to the blueness that stretched to infinity. In an hour the rocket would be out there among that blueness. In less than an hour, the crowds would be cleared away and watching with rapid hearts at a safe distance, as the rocket belched orange flame and rose into the sky on a tower of fire. If only he were aboard. The thought was there, frank and unashamed. If only he could desert the life he now had, exchange it for that of the lowliest crewman aboard. If only— He almost laughed aloud at the thought. It was too late; years too late. Other men would go aboard the President. Younger men trained for 1 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION | just such a purpose. Training also fit certain cogs in certain places. He had studied law—the machinery had shifted, making room. It was that simple. The young spacemeén stood on the speakers’ stand, shifting nervously, pride on their clean-scrubbed faces, smiling, proud of their roles and yet humble with all of space looking down at them. James Maxwell looked care- fully into the face of each one, reading the thoughts there—his own thoughts, unrealized. He was envious, of course, but he was not bitter, and he was glad that he was not bitter. This was the way it had to be. The First Lady rose and walked, amid a great cheering, to christen the spaceship. Her champagne bottle smashed across the tail fin, splashing frothing liquid, and a huge cheer welled and broke among the crowd. They laughed and whistled and clapped and cheered, and the warm afternoon air carried the glad sounds aloft where they seemed to linger even when the cheers had subsided. James Maxwell felt a part of that enthusiasm. He felt his blood rushing through his body as though it were on fire, and his heart pounded a glad excitement. These people, many of them wanted to go, but they would have to go by proxy—and they were satisfied. And suddenly, he realized that he, too, would be satisfied; he would be represented even more than the others. It would be as though he, personally, were soaring through the depths of space on wings of fire! — A man’s voice was crying over the loud-speaker : “‘Ladies and gentlemen. The President of the World Repub- lic!” The voice echoed from the space- ship and rose over the crowd and into Space, and, amid the new ovation, James Maxwell cleared his throat and stepped forward. Conmicloooks com