Nation: Space: The Flight

This was the moment. He had worked toward it for three years. He had suffered agonies of frustration. Now he was alone, flat on his back on a form-fit couch inside the instrument-packed capsule named Friendship 7. In an incredibly matter-of-fact voice, John Glenn began to count: "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . ." A great yellow-white gush of flame spewed out from the Atlas-D missile. For nearly four seconds, it seemed rooted to its pad in the space-age wasteland of Cape Canaveral, a flat, sandy...

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