Yesterday, in the Operations Building at Kennedy, the Apollo-N crew had given Seger a small, informal photo, in a brass frame. It showed the three of them in their space suits, smiling, and was signed by them all. The inscription was: To Bert — In Your Hands.

“Booster, Flight. Booster, damn it.”

Donnelly’s voice was persistent in Conlig’s headset, like a buzzing insect. It made it hard to think.

The mission rules were clear enough. In the event of a failure like this at such a point in the launch, Conlig, as Booster, should push his abort switch. The little icon representing the Saturn continued to deviate from its path. But…

But the deviation wasn’t as bad as it had looked at first. And there clearly wasn’t any tumbling.

The S-NB was a smart bird. It could exert a lot of control over its trajectory by gimbaling its engine bells. It looked as if the booster was doing all it could to keep to its target path. The trajectory was still under control.

Conlig forced himself to reply to Donnelly. “Uh, Flight, Booster.”

“Jesus Christ, Booster. Go.”

Conlig took a deep breath. “Flight, Booster. We seem to have good control at this time.”

Then calls began to come in from the other controllers: Guidance, flight dynamics, the systems guys in the row behind Conlig. Apart from the oscillation around the trajectory, everything was performing nominally.

Donnelly said: “You sure, Booster?”

Are you really sure you have this bird under control? Are you sure you shouldn’t ask for an abort?

Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Conlig?

Conlig felt as if the room, the world, was closing in around him; the headset seemed to burn on his ears, and the little Saturn icon on the plot board was like an image of his own wavering determination.

I should abort. But the thing is flying.

“You sure, Booster?” Donnelly pressed.

“Data indicates it, Flight.”

“Roger.” I’ll trust you, Conlig.

Conlig stared at the icon, willing it to keep on climbing, up toward orbit.

He knew it was in nobody’s interests to abort if they didn’t have to.

The burn lasted two and a half minutes. Apollo-N was boosted five miles higher and another 250 miles downrange.

Then the S-NB stage shut down its NERVA engine.

Jones read off the DSKY display before him. “Natalie, you can tell the boys at Marshall that their rascally bird performed beautifully. Except that we’ve ended up in orbit ass-backwards.”

“Roger,” York replied laconically. “I’ll relay that, Chuck; thanks.”

Mike Conlig was aware of Natalie sitting, as capcom, just a few yards away from him.

I should have aborted. But I didn’t. I got away with it.

He didn’t turn; he didn’t want to meet Natalie’s eyes.

Donnelly felt some of the tension drain out of him.