Free R is for Rocket by Ray Bradbury Page A

in the arctic silence: "Temperature: two thousand degrees!"
        Falling, thought the captain, like a snowflake into the lap of June, warm July, and the sweltering dog-mad days of August.
        "Three thousand degrees Fahrenheit!"
        Under the snow fields engines raced, refrigerants pumped ten thousand miles per hour in rimed boa-constrictor coils.
        "Four thousand degrees Fahrenheit."
        Noon. Summer. July.
        "Five thousand Fahrenheit!"
        And at last the captain spoke with all the quietness of the journey in his voice:
        "Now, we are touching the sun."
        Their eyes, thinking it, were melted gold.
        "Seven thousand degrees!"
        Strange how a mechanical thermometer could sound excited, though it possessed only an emotionless steel voice.
        "What time is it?" asked someone.
        Everyone had to smile.
        For now there was only the sun and the sun and the sun. It was every horizon, it was every direction. It burned the minutes, the seconds, the hourglasses, the clocks; it burned all time and eternity away. It burned the eyelids and the serum of the dark world behind the lids, the retina, the hidden brain; and it burned sleep and the sweet memories of sleep and cool nightfall.
        "Watch it!"
        "Captain!"
        Bretton, the first mate, fell flat to the winter deck. His protective suit whistled where, burst open, his warmness, his oxygen, and his life bloomed out in a frosted steam.
        "Quick!"
        Inside Bretton's plastic face-mask, milk crystals had already gathered in blind patterns. They bent to see.
        "A structural defect in his suit, Captain. Dead."
        "Frozen."
        They stared at that other thermometer which showed how winter lived in this snowing ship. One thousand degrees below zero. The captain gazed down upon the frosted statue and the twinkling crystals that iced over it as he watched. Irony of the coolest sort, he thought; a man afraid of fire and killed by frost.
        The captain turned away. "No time. No time. Let him lie." He felt his tongue move. "Temperature?"
        The dials jumped four thousand degrees.
        "Look. Will you look? Look."
        Their icicle was melting.
        The captain jerked his head to look at the ceiling.
        As if a motion-picture projector had jammed a single clear memory frame in his head, he found his mind focused ridiculously on a scene whipped out of childhood.
        Spring mornings as a boy he had leaned from his bedroom window into the snow-smelling air to see the sun sparkle the last icicle of winter. A dripping of white wine, the blood of cool but warming April fell from that clear crystal blade. Minute by minute, December's weapon grew less dangerous. And then at last the icicle fell with the sound of a single chime to the graveled walk below.
        "Auxiliary pump's broken, sir. Refrigeration. We're losing our ice!"
        A shower of warm rain shivered down upon them. The captain jerked his head right and left. "Can you see the trouble? Quick!"
        The men rushed; the captain bent in the warm air, cursing, felt his hands run over the cold machine, felt them burrow and search, and while he worked he saw a future which was removed from them by the merest breath. He saw the skin peel from the rocket beehive, men thus revealed running, running, mouths shrieking, soundless. Space was a black mossed well where life drowned its roars and terrors. Scream a big scream, but space snuffed it out before it was half up your throat. Men scurried, ants in a flaming matchbox; the ship was dripping lava, gushing steam, nothing!
        "Captain?"
        The nightmare flicked away.
        "Here." He worked in the soft warm rain that fell from the upper decks. He fumbled at the auxiliary pump. "Damn it!" He jerked the feed line. When it came, it'd be the quickest death in the history of dying. One moment, yelling; a warm flash later