G. L. Vandenburg

“ The fires of the moon had given way to soft lifeless ashes.
Robb was glad he had allowed the men to look for souvenirs. After all, it wasn't a hell of a lot to ask for. A man could cut press clippings and collect medals and frame citations; and probably these things would impress grandchildren someday. But it seemed that nothing would be quite as effective as for a man to be able to produce something tangible, an authentic piece of the moon itself.
Captain Robb had always tried to be a humble man. ”

“ Hamston, the rocket expert, summed it up: "With that damn bulb over his skull a man is helpless to remove a single bead of perspiration. He could easily develop into a raving maniac."
Robb held his meeting in the control room. "You have eight hours to finish your work, gentlemen. We're blasting off at 0900."
"I beg your pardon, Captain," said Kingsley, the young man in charge of radio operation, "but what about Washington? They haven't made contact yet and I thought—"
"I talked with Washington an hour ago!"
A modest cheer of approval went up from the crew members. ”

“ Kingsley asked, "Is anything wrong, Captain?"
Robb laughed with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "Nothing is wrong, Kingsley. The fact is we've taken on enough additional weight here to give us some concern on the return trip." He paused to study the faces of his men. They were disappointed. "But," he added emphatically, "I seem to remember promising something about souvenirs—and I guess a man can't travel five hundred thousand miles without something to show for it. I'll get together with Hamston and work out something. ”