LITMIR.BIZ

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fifty-fifty chance.” Hallmyer ran fingers through his lank hair. “But for God’s sake, Stephen, I’m not worried about you. If you want to kill yourself, that’s your own affair. It’s the Earth I’m worried about—”

      “Nonsense. Go home and sleep it off.”

      “Look”—Hallmyer pointed to the sheets of paper with a shaky hand—“no matter how you work the feed and mixing system, you can’t get one hundred percent efficiency in the mixing and discharge.”

      “That’s what makes it a fifty-fifty chance,” Crane said. “So what’s bothering you?”

      “The catalyst that will escape through the rocket tubes. Do you realize what it’ll do if a drop hits the Earth? It’ll start a chain of iron disintegrations that’ll envelope the globe. It’ll reach out to every iron atom—and there’s iron everywhere. There won’t be any Earth left for you to return to—”

      “Listen,” Crane said wearily, “we’ve been through all this before.” He took Hallmyer to the base of the rocket cradle. Beneath the iron framework was a two-hundred-foot pit, fifty feet wide and lined with firebrick.

      “That’s for the initial discharge flames. If any of the catalyst goes through, it’ll be trapped in this pit and taken care of by the secondary reactions. Satisfied now?”

      “But while you’re in flight,” Hallmyer persisted, “you’ll be endangering the Earth until you’re beyond Roche’s limit. Every drop of non-activated catalyst will eventually sink back to the ground and—”

      “For the very last time,” Crane said grimly, “the flame of the rocket discharge takes care of that. It will envelop any escaped particles and destroy them. Now get out. I’ve got work to do.”

      As he pushed him to the door, Hallmyer screamed and waved his arms. “I won’t let you do it!” he repeated over and over. “I’ll find some way to stop you. I won’t let you do it—”

      * * * *

      Work? No, it was sheer intoxication to labor over the ship. It had the fine beauty of a well-made thing. The beauty of polished armor, of a balanced swept-hilt rapier, of a pair of matched guns. There was no thought of danger and death in Crane’s mind as he wiped his hands with waste after the last touches were finished.

      She lay in the cradle ready to pierce the skies. Fifty feet of slender steel, the rivet heads gleaming like jewels. Thirty feet were given over to fuel the catalyst. Most of the forward compartment contained the spring hammock Crane had devised to take up the initial acceleration shock. The ship’s nose was a solid mass of natural quartz that stared upward like a cyclopian eye.

      Crane thought: She’ll die after this trip. She’ll return to the Earth and smash in a blaze of fire and thunder, for there’s no way yet of devising a safe landing for a rocket ship. But it’s worth it. She’ll have had her one great flight, and that’s all any of us should want. One great beautiful flight into the unknown—

      As he locked the workshop door, Crane heard Hallmyer shouting from the cottage across the fields. Through the evening gloom he could see him waving frantically. He trotted through the crisp stubble, breathing the sharp air deeply, grateful to be alive.

      “It’s Evelyn on the phone,” Hallmyer said.

      Crane stared at him. Hallmyer was acting peculiarly. He refused to meet his eyes.

      “What’s the idea?” Crane asked. “I thought we agreed that she wasn’t to call—wasn’t to get in touch with me until I was ready to start? You been putting ideas into her head? Is this the way you’re going to stop me?”

      Hallmyer said, “No—” and studiously examined the indigo horizon.

      Crane went into his study and picked up the phone.

      “Now, listen, darling,” he said without preamble, “there’s no sense getting alarmed now. I explained everything very carefully. Just before the ship crashes, I take to a parachute and float down as happy and gentle as Wynken, Blynken and Nod. I love you very much, and I’ll see you Wednesday when I start. So long—”

      “Good-bye, sweetheart,” Evelyn’s clear voice said, “and is that what you called me for?”

      “Called you!”

      A brown hulk disengaged itself from the hearth rug and lifted itself to strong legs. Umber, Crane’s Great Dane, sniffed and cocked an ear. Then he whined.

      “Did you say I called you?” Crane shouted.

      Umber’s throat suddenly poured forth a bellow. He reached Crane in a single bound, looked up into his face and whined and roared all at once.

      “Shut up, you monster!” Crane said. He pushed Umber away with his foot.

      “Give Umber a kick for me,” Evelyn laughed. “Yes, dear. Someone called and said you wanted to speak to me.”

      “They did, eh? Look, honey, I’ll call you back—”

      Crane hung up. He arose doubtfully and watched Umber’s uneasy actions. Through the windows, the late evening glow sent flickering shadows of orange light. Umber gazed at the light, sniffed, and bellowed again. Suddenly struck, Crane leaped to the window.

      Across the fields, a solid mass of flame thrust high into the air, and within it was the fast-crumbling walls of the workshop. Silhouetted against the blaze, the figures of half a dozen men darted and ran.

      “Good heavens!” Crane cried.

      He shot out of the cottage and, with Umber hard at his heels, sprinted toward the shed. As he ran, he could see the graceful nose of the spaceship within the core of heat, still looking cool and untouched. If only he could reach it before the flames softened its metal and started the rivets.

      The workmen trotted up to him, grimy and panting. Crane gaped at them in a mixture of fury and bewilderment.

      “Hallmyer!” he shouted. “Hallmyer!”

      Hallmyer pushed through the crowd. His eyes were wild and gleamed with triumph.

      “Too bad,” he said. “I’m sorry, Stephen—”

      “You swine!” Crane shouted. “You frightened old man!” He grasped Hallmyer by the lapels and shook him just once. Then he dropped him and started into the shed.

      Hallmyer cried something and an instant later a body hurtled against Crane’s calves and spilled him to the ground. He lurched to his feet, fists swinging. Umber was alongside, growling over the roar of the flames. Crane smashed a man in the face and saw him stagger back against a second. He lifted a knee in a vicious drive that sent the last man crumpling to the ground. Then he ducked his head and plunged into the shop.

      The scorch felt cool at first, but when he reached the ladder and began mounting to the port, he screamed with the agony of his burns. Umber was howling at the foot of the ladder, and Crane realized that the dog could never escape from the rocket blasts. He reached down and hauled Umber into the ship.

      Crane was reeling as he closed and locked the port. He retained consciousness barely long enough to settle himself in the spring hammock. Then instinct alone prompted his hands to reach out toward the control board. Instinct and the frenzied refusal to let his beautiful ship waste itself in the flames. He would fail—yes. But he would fail trying.

      His fingers tripped the switches. The ship shuddered and roared. And blackness descended over him.

      * * * *

      How long was he unconscious? There was no telling. Crane awoke with cold pressing against his face and body, and the sound of frightened yelps in his ears. Crane looked up and saw Umber tangled in the springs and straps of the hammock. His first impulse was to laugh; then suddenly he realized. He had looked up! He had looked up at the hammock.

      He was lying curled in the cup of the quartz nose. The ship had risen high—perhaps almost to Roche’s zone, to the limit

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