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...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
