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Among these stations run 8,000 miles of wire, and through the web throbs a pulse: an accurate time signal from a central station. The missile stands graceful and alone in the center of this great assembly like a sacrificial victim eyed by a thousand priests. The time signal beats the seconds over a chain of loudspeakers, and a grave voice counts the minutes before the moment of sacrifice. "Zero minus ten," chants the voice. "Zero minus nine, zero minus eight . . ."
In the peak-roofed concrete blockhouse near the launching point, red lights on a control panel are turning to green. All of them must be green before the missile is fired. If one light remains red, it means that some instrument or safety precaution is not in operation. Since 1947, when White Sands tossed a V-2 into an uninhabited hillside at Juárez, Mexico, some 50 miles away, the base has been preoccupied with safety. If a missile becomes "errant" (threatens to fly off the range), a safety officer "destructs" it by exploding it in the air.
At "zero" the bird flies off, trailing a shattering roar that echoes from the Organ Mountains. It disappears quickly in the deep blue sky. For human eyes the flight is over, but instrument eyes are still watching. The antennas of the radars crane to follow the missile. The telescopes and cameras turn. When the missile starts falling they follow it down to its death far off on the desert.
Melody from Space. Sometimes the reports from the missile's instruments are recorded on magnetic tape in the form of audible tones that make a strange sort of music. The first thing heard when the tape is played back is the sound of the missile at rest. It is standing on the launching platform and is still at peace with the world. Some of its instruments make continuous tones, deep or shrill, like the drones of a bagpipe. Others report only at given intervals. These play a weird little tinkling tune, over & over, like a schoolboy proud of mastering his first piano exercise.
When the missile is fired, some instruments change their pitch as the temperature rises in the combustion chamber or the pressure increases. The tinkling melody plays on, but as the missile gathers speed, unpleasant sounds obscure it. The control fins struggle to keep the missile straight. Vibration builds up with the speed and makes a quavering growl. When the missile rolls, it sends out a long, often-repeated groan. All the sounds blend together, like modernistic discords on top of the tinkling melody.
At last the missile rises above the earth's atmosphere, and the discords die away. While the missile flies its vacuum course, there is no air to make it roll or vibrate. The fins no longer move. The bird is at peace in space, serene as an asteroid, and its instruments sing the cheerful song of a happy child.
When the missile curves back to the atmosphere, trouble starts again. The fins renew their struggle. Vibration and roll build up. Louder & louder rises their clamor, drowning the melody. Then comes a crackle of jumbled noise. The missile has reached the end of its flight and the singing instruments are dead.