WHEN, three weeks to a day later, d**k Simmons walked out of an airplane and down the steps at Las Vegas, Nevada, he had a sore arm. It still throbbed from the sting and subsequent reaction of the last shot he had taken. “I have got so much serum in me,” he told his father, “I practically splash when I walk.” He did not add that he also found it necessary, at that time, to watch when and where he sat down, and to do so with great care.
Now, still holding his arm carefully at his side, d**k looked about him to see what the desert was like. Somewhere out in this vast, largely uninhabited, hard-baked region was the incredible place where a tremendous launching was to take place. Here desolation would be combined with the most advanced achievements of science; here rockets of which he could n
