ROCKET SUMMER
By RAY BRADBURY
The first great rocket flight into space, bearing
intrepid pioneers to the Moon. The world's ecstasy
flared into red mob-hate when President Stanley
canceled the flight. How did he get that way?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The crowd gathered to make a curious noise this cold grey morningbefore the scheduled Birth. They arrived in gleaming scarlettumble-bugs and yellow plastic beetles, yawning and singing and ready.The Birth was a big thing for them.
He stood alone up in his high office tower window, watching them witha sad impatience in his grey eyes. His name was William Stanley,president of the company that owned this building and all those otherwork-hangars down on the tarmac, and all that landing field stretchingtwo miles off into the Jersey mists. William Stanley was thinking aboutthe Birth.
The Birth of what? Stanley's large, finely sculptured head feltheavier, older. Science, with a scalpel of intense flame would slashwide the skulls of engineers, chemists, mechanics in a titanicCaesarian, and out would come the Rocket!
"Yezzir! Yezzir!" he heard the far-off, faint and raucous declarationsof the vendors and hawkers. "Buy ya Rocket Toys! Buy ya Rocket Games!Rocket Pictures! Rocket soap! Rocket teethers for the tiny-tot! Rocket,Rocket, Rocket! Hey!"
Shutting the open glassite frame before him, his thin lips drew tight.Morning after morning America sent her pilgrims to this shrine. Theypeered in over the translucent restraint barrier as if the Rocket werea caged beast.
He saw one small girl drop her Rocket toy. It shattered, and was foldedunder by the moving crowd's feet.
"Mr. Stanley?"
"Uh? Oh, Captain Greenwald. Sorry. Forgot you were here." Stanleymeasured his slow, thoughtful steps to his clean-topped desk."Captain," he sighed wearily, "you're looking at the unhappiest manalive." He looked at Greenwald across the desk. "That Rocket is thegift of a too-generous science to a civilization of adult-childrenwho've fiddled with dynamite ever since Nobel invented it. They—"
He got no further. The office door burst inward. A tall, work-grimedman strode swiftly in—all oil, all heat, all sunburnt, wrinkledleather skin. Rocket flame burnt in his dark, glaring eyes. He stoppedshort at Stanley's desk, breathing heavily, leaning against it.
Stanley noticed the wrench in the man's fist. "Hello, Simpson."
Simpson swore bitterly. "What's all this guff about you stopping theRocket tomorrow?" he demanded.
Stanley nodded. "This isn't a good time for it to go up."
Simpson snorted. "This isn't a good time," he mimicked. Then heswore again. "By George, it's like telling a woman her baby's beenstill-born!"
"I know it's hard to understand—"
"Hard, hell!" shouted the man. "I'm Head Mechanic! I've worked twoyears! The others have worked, too! And the Rocket'll travel tomorrowor we'll know why!"
Stanley crushed out his cigar, inside his fist. The room swayedimperceptibly in his vision. Sometimes, one wanted to use a gun—heshook away the thought. He kept his tongue.
Simpson raged on. "Mr. Stanley, you have until three this afternoon tochange your mind. We'll pull strings and you'll be out of your job bythe week-end! If not—" and he said the next words very slowly, "howwould your wife look with her head bashed in, <