Whatever.

We’re locked in, Billy. Both of us. All of us. It’s all a test, just like Father Gilhooley always told us. We do what we have to, because if we do less than that, we let down the guys with us. Nobody flies alone, brother. We’ve got each other’s lives in our hands.

You believe that?

I know it.

Bob?

Yeah.

I know I’ve treated you like shit ever since we were kids . . .

You did? When?

I’m sorry. I should’ve done better.

I should’ve been better, Bill. Sometimes I raised hell just to see what you’d do about it.

I love you, brother.

I know. It goes both ways, Bill.

Don’t die, Bobby. Please don’t die.

I don’t want to . . .

The pain was flowing over them both in overpowering waves now, like massive breakers at the beach. They could sense a new surge growing and gliding toward them and then engulfing them, drenching them until they finally broke out of it only to see a new wave heading their way.

I’m not going to make it, Bill.

Yes you are. We can make it.

I don’t think so. I’m sorry, big brother. I’m trying, but . . .

You can do it! We can do it—together.

Together. It’s not so bad that way, is it? I mean, when you’re not alone.

Nobody’s ever alone, kid. Even out here neither one of is alone. Not ever.

The plane was out over the water now, the dark green ridges behind them, nothing but restless deep blue billows below, reaching for them. Not another plane in sight. We’re losing altitude.

Yeah.

I don’t know how long Look! The carrier, Bob!

Where? Yeah. Looks damned small from up here. You’re almost home. I’ll handle the rudder, you work the stick.

Yeah, okay. Maybe we can make it. Maybe . . .

No maybe about it! We’re going to put this junk heap down right in front of the admiral’s nose.

Sure.

Gear down?

Think so. Indicator light’s shot away.

The hell with it.

LSO’s waving us in.

They’ve cleared the deck for us.

Nice of them.

Easy now, easy on the throttle. Don’t stall her!

Stop the backseat driving.

Deck’s coming up too damned fast, Bobby!

Don’t worry . . . I can . . . make it. Always was . . . a better flier . . . than you.

I know. I know! Just take her easy now.

Got it.

Head knocker?

Yeah. Don’t want to eject by accident, do we.

Hang in there, kid.

Here it comes!

You did it! We’re down!

We did it, brother. We did it together.

The deck team rushed to the battered plane. Firefighters doused the hot engine area and wings with foam. Plane handlers climbed up to the cockpit and slid the canopy back to find the pilot crumpled unconscious, his flight suit soaked with blood from the waist down. The medics lifted Bob Carlton from the cockpit tenderly and had whole blood flowing into his arm even while they wheeled him toward the sick bay.

“Look at his face,” said one of the medics. “What the hell’s he smiling about?”

It took thirty more orbits around the Moon before Peters and McDonald left the surface to rendezvous with the command module and begin the flight back to Earth. Thirty orbits while Bill Carlton sat totally alone. New attempts to contact his brother were fruitless. He knew that Bob was alive; that much he could sense. But there was no answer to his silent calls.