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[i]The Starlite Bar, unofficial press headquarters in Cocoa Beach, was roaring happily when I arrived with B.G. MacNabb, field manager for Convair and the man in charge of the Atlas just fired. We took seats under the hurtling moons and meteors that decorate the walls of this bistro, and pretty girls in thigh-gripping leotards and space tunics served us Atlas Specials - a multi-propellant drink with a small blue flame hovering on the surface. "Pretty active party," I said. "Dead," MacNabb said. "You should have been here in the early days after a good shoot. One time they threw about a hundred chairs in the swimming pool. Matter of fact, they got to throwing people in later - fully clothed." "Nobody got sore?" "Look," MacNabb said. "You go through a month of get-ready. You go through a three-day count. Then you put one in the little barrel 6,300 miles away. Man - it's a privilege to get thrown in some pool. After a good one you don't just sit down and blow on your fingernails. And that goes for about 90 percent of the people in this crazy town. They're missile-happy."[/i]
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