Robert Silverberg - New Year's Eve—2000 A.D.

Yeah, he thought. Purists like Marsh.

Somewhere inside his mind he was conscious that he ought to be at the window, looking out, when midnight came. He had one minute. Less than that, now. Fifty seconds. Forty-five. Forty.

Maritta’s lips touched his in a lingering kiss. He felt her body straining against his, while somewhere within him his mind went on counting. Thirty-five. Thirty. Twenty-five.

Twenty.

“Excuse me,” he said thickly. “Gotta go look out the window.”

Fifteen.

He sensed Abel Marsh standing next to him, pressing the button that would clear the opaqued window and make it possible for them to look out.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

The window cleared. Outside the night was black except for a few billion city lights and the round silver dollar up above that was the moon.

Seven. Six.

A current of excitement started to build up in Carhew. He saw the girl clinging to his arm. The three of them stared outward at the silent skies.

Five. Four. Three. Two.

ONE!

“It’s twelve midnight,” the announcer said. “We enter the Year 2000!”

Suddenly a bolt of light split the sky—a shaft of white flame that leaped up from the Earth and sprang through the heavens, lighting up the entire city and probably half the continent. A burning, searing bolt of light.

Carhew felt suddenly sober. He looked at Marsh.

Behind them, the radio blared: “We bring you now a special announcement relayed from White Sands Rocket Base. One minute ago, at the stroke of midnight, the Rocket Ship Moonflight made a successful blastoff. It was the first time in the history of humanity that man has broken forth from the bonds of Earth in a manned spaceship. We expect to bring you further bulletins throughout the night. Landing on the moon itself is scheduled for eight A.M. on New Year’s Day.”

Carhew was smiling. He looked at Abel Marsh, his fellow engineer on the project. “Well, we made it,” he said hoarsely. “The ship took off.”

“Happy New Year!” someone yelled. “Happy New Century!”

It didn’t matter much now, Carhew thought, which century this was. Not now. Twentieth or twenty-first, it made no difference.

All that counted was that this was the Age of Space.