it was as if “astronaut” were an honorific, like “champion” or “superstar,” as if the word itself were one of the infinite variety of goodies that Project Mercury was bringing your way. And not just goodies in the crass sense, either. It had all the things that made you feel good, including the things that were good for the soul. For long stretches you’d bury yourself in training, in blissful isolation, good rugged bare-boned isolation, in Low Rent surroundings, in settings that even resembled hallowed Edwards in the old X–I days, and with that same pioneer spirit, which money cannot buy, and
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