This is the way I heard it.

On the day the great celebration, the invalid,

peered through his telescope at the crowd gathered below.

Hundreds had already assembled. Hundreds more were on their way, hoping to see the famous

passenger embark upon a most unlikely journey, a journey 14 years in the making, a journey

the expert said could never be completed.

The invalid rolled his chair closer to the window and considered the cost of his little expedition,

$15 million, over twice what he'd budgeted for. Today we call this sort of runaway spending

business as usual. Back then they called it the price of progress.

Call it what you will, $15 million dollars, was one hell of a toll.

Through his telescope the invalid watched the passenger approach the vehicle,

turned to those assembled and begin to speak. He couldn't hear the words, but he knew what was

being said. The passenger was thanking the people for their patience, thanking them for their

support, thanking them for the honor of being the first to go, where no man had gone before.

When the passenger finished the crowd applauded. The fireworks exploded, the band began to play,

and then the passenger climbed into the vehicle, waived to the crowd, and rode into history.

The invalid watched it all through the lens of his telescope and wept because he knew

better than most that the true price of progress was a hell of a lot more than $15 million dollars.

Maybe if his wife had been with him on that historic day she could have brought the

invalid some comfort. She'd been good at that over the years, very good. Ever since his escape

from that terrible fire 60 feet below the surface, pain had been his constant companion and comfort

hard to come by. He recalled the strange tingling in his feet and hands, followed by the intense

...