The Stars Look Down

(by Lester del Key)

Erin Morse came down the steps slowly without looking back, and his long fingers brushed through the gray hair that had been brown when he first entered the building. Four years is a long time to wait when a man has work to do and the stars look down every night, re-

minding him of his dreams. There were new lines in his face and little wrinkles had etched themselves around his dark eyes. But even four years had been too few to change his erect carriage or press down his wide shoulders. At sixty, he could still move with the lithe grace of a boy.

The heavy gate opened as he neared it and he stepped out with a slow, even pace. He passed the big three-wheeled car parked there, then stopped and breathed deeply, letting his eyes roam over the green woods and plowed fields and take in the blue sweep of the horizon. Only the old can draw full sweetness from freedom, though the young may cry loudest for it. The first heady taste of it over, he turned his back on the prison and headed down the road.

There was a bugling from the car behind him, but he was barely conscious of it; it was only when it drove up beside him and stopped that he noticed. A heavily built man stuck out a face shaped like a bulldog's and yelled.

"Hey, Erin! Don't tell me you're blind as well as crazy?"

Morse swung his head and a momentary flash of surprise and annoyance crossed his face before he stepped over to the car. "You would be here, of course, Stewart."

"Sure. I knew your men wouldn't. Hop in and I'll ride you over to Hampton." At Erin's hesitation, he gestured impatiently. "I'm not going to kidnap you, if that's what you think. Federal laws still mean something to me, you know."

"I wouldn't know." Erin climbed in and the motor behind purred softly, its sound indicating a full atomic generator instead of the usual steam plant. "I suppose the warden kept you well informed of my actions."

The other chuckled. "He did; money has its uses when you know where to put it. I found out you weren't letting your men visit or write to you, and that's about all. Afraid I'd find out what was in the letters?"

"Precisely. And the boys could use the time better for work than useless visits to me. Thanks, I have tobacco." But at Stewart's impatient gesture, he put the "makings" back and accepted a cigarette. "It isn't poisoned, I suppose?"

"Nor loaded."

Erin let a half smile run over his lips and relaxed on the seat, watching the road flash by and letting his mind run over other times with Stewart. Probably the other was doing the same, since the silence was mutual. They had all too many common memories. Forty years of them, from the time they had first met at the institute as

roommates, both filled with a hunger for knowledge that would let them cross space to other worlds.

Erin, from a family that traced itself back almost to Adam, and with a fortune equally old, had placed his faith in the newly commercialized atomic power. Gregory Stewart, who came from the wrong side of the tracks, where a full meal was a luxury, was more conservative; new and better explosives were his specialty. The fact that they were both aiming at the same goal made little difference in their arguments. Though they stuck together from stubbornness, black eyes flourished.

Then, to complicate matters further, Mara Devlin entered their lives to choose Erin after two years of indecision and to die while giving birth to his son. Erin took the boy and a few workers out to a small island off the coast and began soaking his fortune into workshops where he could train men in rocketry and gain some protection from Stewart's thugs.

Gregory Stewart had prospered with his explosives during the war of 1958, and was piling up fortune on fortune. Little by little, the key industries of the country were coming under his control, along with the toughest gangs of gunmen. When he could, he bought an island lying off the coast, a few miles from Erin's, stocked it with the best brains he could buy, and began his own research. The old feud settled down to a dull but constant series of defeats and partial victories that gained nothing for either.

Erin came to the crowning stroke of Stewart's offensive, grimaced, and tossed the cigarette away. "I forgot to thank you for railroading me up on that five-year sentence, Greg," he said quietly. "I suppose you were responsible for the failure of the blast that killed my son,

as well."

Stewart looked at him in surprise which seemed genuine. "The failure was none of my doing, Erin. Anyway, you had no business sending the boy up on the crazy experimental model; any fool should have known he couldn't handle it. Maybe my legal staff framed things a little, but it was manslaughter. I could have wrung your neck when I heard Mara's son was dead, instead of letting you off lightly with five years—less one for good behavior."

"I didn't send him up." Erin's soft voice contrasted oddly with Stewart's bellow. "He slipped out one night on his own, against my orders. If the whole case hadn't been fixed with your money, I could have proved that at the trial. As it was, I couldn't get a decent hearing."

"All right, then, I framed you. But you've hit back at me without trying to, though you probably don't know it yet." He brushed Erin's protest aside quickly. "Never mind, you'll see what I mean soon enough. I didn't meet you to hash over past grievances."

"I wondered why you came to see me out."

They swung off the main highway into a smaller road where the speed limit was only sixty and went flashing past the other cars headed for Hampton. Stewart gunned the car savagely, unmindful of the curves. "We're almost at the wharf," he pointed out needlessly, "so I'll make it short and sweet. I'm about finished with plans for a rocket that will work—a few more months should do the trick—and I don't want competition now. In plain words, Erin, drop it or all rules are off between us."

"Haven't they been?" Erin asked.

"Only partly. Forget your crazy ion-blast idea, and I'll reserve a berth for you on my ship; keep on bucking me and I'll ruin you. Well?"

"No, Greg."

Stewart grunted and shrugged. "I was afraid you'd be a fool. We've always wanted the same things, and you've either had them to begin with or gotten them from under my nose. But this time it's not going to be that way. I'm declaring war. And for your information, my patents go through in a few days, so you'll have to figure on getting along without that steering assembly you worked out."

Erin gave no sign he had heard as the car came to a stop at the small wharf. "Thanks for picking me up," he said with grave courtesy. Stewart answered with a curt nod and swung the car around on its front wheels. Erin turned to a boy whose boat was tied up nearby. "How much to ferry me out to Kroll Island?"

"Two bucks." The boy looked up, and changed his smile quickly.. "You one of them crazy guys who's been playing with skyrockets? Five bucks, I meant."

Erin grimaced slightly but held out the money.

II

There was nobody waiting to greet him on the island, nor had he expected anyone. He fed the right combination into the alarm system to keep it quiet and set off up the rough wooden walk toward the buildings that huddled together a few hundred yards from the dock. The warehouses, he noticed, needed a new coat of paint, and

the dock would require repairs if the tramp freighter were to use it much longer.

There was a smell of smoke in the air, tangy and resinous at first, but growing stronger as he moved away from the ocean's crisp counteracting odor. As he passed the big machine shop, a stronger whiff of it reached him, unpleasant now. There was a thin wisp of smoke going up behind it, the faint gray of an almost exhausted fire. The men must be getting careless, burning their rubbish so close to the buildings. He cut around the corner and stopped.

The south wall of the laboratory was a black, charred scar, dripping dankly from a hose that was playing on it. Where the office building had stood, gaunt steel girders rose from a pile of smoking ashes and'half-burned boards, with two blistered filing cabinets poking up like ghosts at a wake.

The three men standing by added nothing to the cheerfulness of the scene. Erin shivered slightly before advancing toward them. It was a foreboding omen for his homecoming, and for a moment the primitive fears mastered him. The little pain that had been scratching at his heart came back again, stronger this time.

Doug Wratten turned off the hose and shook a small arm at the sandy-haired young husky beside him. "All right," he yelled in a piping falsetto, "matter's particular and energy's discrete. But you chemists try and convince an atomic generator that it's dealing with building-block atoms instead of wave-motion."

Jimmy Shaw's homely, pleasant face still studied the smoldering ashes. "Roll wave-motion into a ball and give it valence, redhead," he suggested. "Do that and I'll send Stewart a sample—it might make a better bomb than the egg he laid on us. How about it, Dad?"

"Maybe. Anyhow, you kids drop the argument until you're through being mad at Stewart," the foreman ordered. "You'll carry your tempers over against each other." Tom Shaw was even more grizzled and stooped than Erin remembered, and his lanky frame seemed to have grown thinner.

"All right," he decided in his twangy, down-East voice. "I guess it's over, so we. . . Hey, it's Erin!"

He caught at Jimmy's arm and pulled him around, heading toward Erin with a loose-jointed trot. Doug forgot his arguments and moved his underdone figure on the double after them, shouting at the top of his thin voice. Erin found his arm aching and his ears ringing from their questions.

He broke free for a second and smiled. "All right, I got a year off, I

sneaked in, I'm glad to be back, and you've done a good job, I gather. Where are Hank and Dutch?"

"Over in the machine shop, I guess. Haven't seen them since the fire was under control." Shaw jerked a long arm at the remains. "Had a little trouble, you see."

"I saw. Stewart's men?"

"Mm-hm. Came over in a plane and dropped an incendiary. Sort of ruined the office, but no real damage to the laboratory. If those filing cabinets are as good as they claimed, it didn't hurt our records."

Doug grinned beatifically. "Hurt their plane more. Tom here had one of our test models sent up for it, and the rocket striking against the propeller spoiled their plans." He gestured out toward the ocean. "They're drinking Neptune's health in hell right now."

"Bloodthirsty little physicist, isn't he?" Jimmy asked the air. "Hey, Kung, the boss is back. Better go tell the others."

The Chinese cook came hobbling up, jerking his bad leg over the ground and swearing at it as it slowed him down. "Kung, him see boss fella allee same time more quick long time," he intoned in the weird mixture of pidgin, beche-de-mer, and perverted English that was his private property. "Very good, him come back. Mebbeso make suppee chop-chop same time night."

He gravely shook hands with himself before Erin, his smile saying more than the garbled English he insisted on using, then went hobbling off toward the machine shop. Shaw turned to the two young men.

"All right, you kids, get along. I've got business with Erin." As they left, his face lengthened. "I'm glad you're back, boss. Things haven't been looking any too good. Stewart's getting more active. Oh, the fire didn't do us any permanent damage, but we've been having trouble getting our supplies freighted in—had to buy an old tramp freighter when Stewart took over the regular one—and it looks like, war brewing all along the line."

"I know it. Stewart brought me back and told me he was gunning for us." Erin dropped back onto a rock, realizing suddenly that he was tired; and he'd have to see a doctor about his heart—sometime. "And he's stolen our steering unit, or thinks he's getting it patented, at least."

"Hmmm. He can't have it; it's the only practical solution to the controls system there is. Erin, we'll . . . Skip it, here come Dutch •nd Hank."

But a sudden whistle from the rocket test tower cut in, indicating

a test. The structural engineer and machinist swung sharply, and Doug and Jimmy popped out of the laboratory at a run. Shaw grabbed at Erin.

"Come on," he urged. "This is the biggest test yet, I hope. Good thing you're here to see it." Even Kung was hobbling toward the

tower.

Erin followed, puzzling over who could have set off the whistle; he knew of no one not accounted for, yet a man had to be in the tower. Evidently there was an addition to the force, of whom he knew nothing. They reached the guardrail around the tower, and the whistle tooted again, three times in warning.

"Where is the rocket?" Erin yelled over the whistle. There was nothing on the takeoff cradle.

"Left two days ago; this is the return. Jack's been nursing it without sleep—wouldn't let anyone else have it," Shaw answered hurriedly. "Only took time off to send another up for the bomber."

Following their eyes, Erin finally located a tiny point of light that grew as he watched. From the point in the sky where it was, a thin shrilling reached their ears. A few seconds later, he made out the stubby shape of a ten-foot model, its tubes belching out blue flame in a long, tight jet. With a speed that made it difficult to follow, it shot over their heads at a flat angle, heading over the ocean, while its speed dropped. A rolling turn pointed it back over their heads, lower this time, and the ion-blast could be seen as a tight, unwavering

track behind it.

Then it reversed again and came over the tower, slowed almost to a stop, turned up to vertical with a long blast from its steering tubes, and settled slowly into the space between the guide rails. It slid down with a wheeze, sneezed faintly, and decided to stop peacefully. Erin felt a tingle run up his back at his first sight of a completely successful radio-controlled flight

The others were yelling crazily. Dutch Bauer, the fat structural engineer, was dancing with Hank Vlcek, his bald pate shining red with excitement. "It worked, it worked," they were chanting.

Shaw grunted. "Luck," he said sourly, but his face belied the words. "Jack had no business sending our first model with the new helix on such a flight. Wonder the darn fool didn't lose it in space."

Erin's eyes were focused on the young man coming from the pit of the tower. There was something oddly familiar about those wide shoulders and the mane of black hair that hugged his head. As the boy came nearer, the impression was heightened by the serious

brown eyes, now red from lack of sleep, that were slightly too deep in the round face.

The boy scanned the group and moved directly toward Morse, a little hesitantly. "Well," he asked, "ho\y did you like the test—Mr. Morse, I think? Notice how the new helix holds the jets steady?"

Erin nodded slowly. So this was what Stewart had meant by his Statement that he had been hit twice as hard. "You resemble your father, Jack Stewart!"

Jack shifted on his feet, then decided there was no disapproval on Erin's face, and grinned. He held out a small package. "Then I'll give you this, sir. It's a reel of exposed film, shot from the rocket, and it should show the other side of the Moon!"

Ill

The secretary glided into the richly appointed room, sniffing at the pungent odor given off by the dirty old pipe in Stewart's mouth. "Mr. Russell's here, sir," she announced, wondering whether his scowl was indicative of indigestion or directed at some particular person.

"Send him in, then." He bit at the stem of the pipe without looking at her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't indigestion, which was the only thing that made him roar at the office force; at other times he was fair and just with them, if not given to kindliness. Looking at Russell as she sent him in, she guessed the object of his anger.

"Well?" Stewart asked curtly as his right-hand man entered.

"Now look," Russell began, "I admit I sent the plane over before you said, but was it my fault if they brought it down? How was I to know they had a torpedo they could control in the air?"

"Not torpedo, you fool; it was a rocket. And that's bad news, in itself, since it means they're making progress. But we'll skip that. lf gave orders you were to wait until Morse refused my offer, and you didn't. Furthermore, I told you to send it over at night, when they'd be unprepared, and drop it on the tower and laboratory, not on the office. I'm not trying to burn people to death."

"But the pilot didn't want—"

"You mean you had your own little ideas." He tossed the pipe into a tray and began picking at his fingernails. "Next time I give you orders, Russell, I expect them to be followed. Understand? You'd better. Now get down to Washington and see what you can do about rushing our patent on the unified control; Erin Morse didn't look

surprised or bothered enough to suit me. He's holding something, and I don't want it to show up as an ace. Okay, beat it."

Russell looked up in surprise, and made tracks toward the door. Either the old man was feeling unusually good, or he was worried. That had been easier than he expected.

Back on Kroll Island, Erin Morse settled back in his chair in the corner of the workshop that served as a temporary office. "Read this," he said, handing over a dog-eared magazine with a harshly colored cover to Shaw. "It's a copy of Interplanetary Tales, one of the two issues they printed. It's not well known, but it's still classed as literature. Page 108, where it's marked in red."

Shaw looked at him curiously, and reached for the magazine. He began reading in his overly precise manner, the exact opposite of his usual slow speech. "Jerry threw the stick over to the right, and the Betsy veered sharply, jarring his teeth. The controls were the newest type, arranged to be handled by one stick. Below the steering rod was a circular disk, and banked around it was a circle of pistons that varied the steering jet blasts according to the amount they were depressed. Moving the stick caused the disk to press against those pistons which would turn the ship in that direction, slowly with a little movement, sharply if it were depressed the limit."

He looked at Erin. "But that's a fair description of the system we use."

"Exactly. Do you remember whether the submarine periscope was patented?"

"Why, Jules Verne . . . Hmmm. Anything described reasonably accurately in literature can't be given a basic patent." Shaw thought it over slowly. "I take it we mail this to the attorneys and get Stew-art's claim voided. So that's why you didn't try for a patent on it?"

"Naturally."

Morse picked up the records that had been saved from the fire by insulated cabinets, and ran back over the last few years' work. They showed the usual huge expenditures and small progress. Rockets aren't built on a shoestring nor in the backyard during the idle hours of a boy scientist. "Total cost, five-foot experimental radio-controlled rocket, $13,843.51," read one item. From another book he found that it had crashed into the sea on its first flight and been destroyed.

But there were advances. The third model had succeeded, though the flickering, erratic blast had made control difficult. A new lightweight converter had been tested successfully, throwing out power from the atoms with only a .002 percent heat loss. An ion-release had

been discovered by General Electratomic Company that afforded a more than ample supply of ions, and Shaw had secured rights for its use. Toward the last there were outlays for some new helix to control the ion-blast on a tight line under constant force and a new alloy for the chamber. Those had always been the problems.

"Good work," Erin Morse nodded. "This last model, I gather, is the one Jack used to reach the Moon." Under it he penciled the word "success" in bright green. "The boys were quite excited over those pictures, even if they did show nothing spectacular. I'm glad he sent it."

"So am I. They need encouragement." Shaw kicked aside a broken bearing and moved his chair back against the wall. "I suppose you're wondering why Jack's working with us. I didn't know how you'd take it."

"I'm reserving my opinion for the facts." It had been a shock, seeing the boy there, but he had covered up as best he could and waited until information was vouchsafed.

Shaw began awkwardly, not sure yet whether Erin approved or not. "Jack came here about a year ago and—well, he simply told us he was looking for work. Had a blowup with his father over your being sent up for the accident, it seems, back then. Anyway, they'd been quarreling before because Jack wanted to specialize in atomics, and the old man wanted him to carry on with explosives.

"So Jack left home, took his degree with money his mother had left him, and came here. He's good, too, though I wouldn't tell him so. That new helix control is his work, and he's fixed up the ion-release so as to give optimum results. Since Doug and you studied atomics, they've made big progress, I reckon, and we needed someone with his training."

"Any experimental work needs new blood," Erin agreed. "So Greg succeeded in teaching his son that Mars was the last frontier, but no^t how to reach it."

"Seems that way. Anyway, his father's kicking up a worse fuss with us since he came. Somehow, there's a leak, and I can't locate the source —Jack has been watched, and he's not doing it. But Stewart's getting too much information on what we're doing—like that control. He managed to cut off freighter service and choke our source of supplies until I bought up a tramp and hired a no-good captain."

"He'll hit harder when we get his patent application killed. By the way, are the plans for that air-renewer of Jimmy's still around?"

Shaw nodded. "Sure, I guess so. He never found out what was

wrong with it, though, so we've been planning on carrying oxygen flasks with us." Based on the idea of photosynthesis, the air-renewer had been designed to break down the carbon dioxide waste product of breathing by turning it into sugar and free oxygen, as a plant does, and permit the same air being used over and over.

"All it needs is saturated air around the catalyst." Erin had fished around in the papers from the burned office until he had the plans. Now he spread them before Shaw and indicated the changes. "A spray of water here, and remove the humidity afterward. Took me three years up there, working when I could, to figure out that fault, but it's ready for the patent attorneys now. Dutch can draw up the plans in the morning."

They stuck the papers and books away and passed out of the building into the night. "Stars look right good," Shaw observed. "Mars seems to be waiting until we can get there."

"That shouldn't be long now, with the rocket blast finally under control. What's that?" Erin pointed toward a sharp streak of light that rose suddenly over the horizon and arced up rapidly. As they watched, it straightened to vertical and went streaking up on greased wings until it faded into the heights beyond vision.

"Looks like Stewart's made a successful model." A faint, high whine reached their ears now. "If he has, we will have a fight on our hands."

Erin nodded. "Start the boys on the big rocket in the morning; we can't stop for more experimental work now."

IV

The big electric hammer came down with a monotonous thud and clank, jarring against the eardrums in its endless hunger for new material to work on. Hank Vlcek's little bullet head looked like a hairy billiard ball stuck on an ape's body as he bobbed up and down in front of it, feeding in sheets of cuproberyl alloy. But the power in the machinist's arms seemed to match that of the motor.

Dutch Bauer looked up from a sheet of blueprints and nodded approvingly, then went back to the elaborate calculations required to complete the design he was working on. The two co-operated perfectly, Dutch creating structural patterns on paper, and Vlcek turning them into solid metal.

On paper, the Santa Maria was shaping up handsomely, though the only beauty of the ship itself was to be that given by severe utility. Short and squat, with flaring blast tubes, she showed little resem-

blance to the classic cigar-hulls of a thousand speculative artists. The one great purpose was strength with a minimum of weight,, and the locating of the center of gravity below the thrust points of the rockets. When completed, there would be no danger of her tipping her nose back to Earth on the takeoff.

Out on the ways that had been thrown up hastily, gaunt girders were shaping into position to form her skeleton, and some of the outer sheathing was in position. The stubby air fins that would support her in the air until speed was reached were lying beside her, ready to be attached, and a blower was already shooting in insulation where her double hull was completed. Space itself would be insulation against heat loss, but the rays of the unfiltered sunlight needed something to check them, or the men inside the ship would have been boiled long before Mars was reached. Hsi Kung was running the blower, babbling at it in singsong Peking dialect. At a time like this, they were all common laborers when there was work to be done.

Erin pulled on coveralls and reached for the induction welder, while Jimmy Shaw consulted his blueprints. "Wonder why Doug hasn't shown up?" the boy asked. "He usually gets back from the mainland before morning, but it's nine already. Hmm. Looks like Hank's machined enough hull plates to keep us busy until supper."

"It does, though where he finds time is a puzzle. He must work all night. We need other workers, if we're to compete with Stewart's force. Even counting Kung, eight men aren't enough for this job." Erin began climbing up the wooden framing that gave access to the hull, wondering whether his heart would bother him today. Sleep had been slow coming the night before, and he was tired. This work was too heavy for an old man, though he hadn't thought of himself as old before. Certainly he didn't look old.

"Wonder why Doug goes to town once a week?" he asked.

Jimmy chuckled. "Don't you know? He's found a girl friend there, believe it or not. Some woman has either taken pity on him, or he's found his nerve at last."

Doug wasn't exactly the sort that would appeal to women. His short, scrawny figure was all angles, and his face, topped by its thin mop of reddish hair, was vaguely like that of an eagle. Then, too, he usually stuttered around women.

Erin smiled faintly. "It's a shame, in a way, that Doug's so shy around girls. I hope he has better luck with this one than that other."

"So do I, though I wouldn't tell him so. He's been as cocky as a rooster since he found this Helen." Jimmy settled into position with

a grunt and began moving a sheet into place as it came up on the magnetic grapple Jack was working below him. "Okay, fire away."

The welder was heavy, and the heat that poured up from the plates sapped at Morse's strength. He was conscious of sudden relief at noon when a shout came up to him. He released the welder slowly, rubbing tired muscles, and looked down at the weaving form of Doug Wratten. One of the physicist's thin arms was motioning him down erratically.

"Drunk!" Jimmy diagnosed in amazement. "Didn't know he touched the stuff."

There was no question of Doug's state. His words were thick and muffled as Erin reached him. "Go 'head 'n' fire me," he muttered thickly. "Fire me, Erin. Kick m' out 'thout a good word. I'm a low-down dirty dog, tha's what."

"For being drunk, Doug? That hardly justifies such extreme measures."

"Huh-uh. Who's drunk? It's tha' girl. ... I foun' the leak we been worrV about."

Erin got an arm around him and began moving toward the bunk-house, meaning to pay no attention to his mumbled words. But the last ones struck home. The leak of information to Stewart's carnp had been troubling them all for the last two months. "Yes?" he encouraged.

" 'S the girl. She's a spy for Stewart." His voice stuck in his throat and he rumbled unhappily. "Use'a be his sec'tary, planted her on me. Jus' usin' me, tha's all. Saw a letter she was writin' him when I was waitin' for her to come down. Din't wait anymore. . . . Jus' usin' me; tol' me she was in'rested in my work. Tol' me she loved me. Foun'out all I knew. . . . Better fire me, Erin."

"I think not, Doug. It might have happened to any of us. Why don't you go to sleep?"

Wratten rolled over in the bed as he was released, gagging sickly, and moaning to himself. "I love . . . Helen . . . Damn Helen!" As Erin closed the door, his voice came out, pleading. "Don't tell Jimmy; he'd laugh."

Jimmy stood at the door as Erin came out. "Poor devil," he said. "I heard enough to know what happened. Anything I can do for him?"

"Let him sleep it off. I'll have a talk with him when he wakes up and see what I can do about bolstering his faith in himself."

"Okay," Jimmy agreed, "but it was a dirty, rotten trick of Stew-

art's, using him like that. Say, Dad's up at the shack swearing at something else Stewart's done, and yelling for you. I just went up there."

Erin grunted, and turned hastily toward the temporary office building they had erected. It was always something, except when it was more than one thing. First the fire, the trouble with the patent, now safely squelched, difficulty in obtaining tools, and one thing after another, all meant to wear down their morale. This was probably one of the master strokes that seemed to happen almost at regular intervals.

Sometimes he wondered whether either of them would ever succeed; forty years of rivalry had produced no results except enough to keep them trying. Now, when success for one of them seemed at hand, the feud was going on more bitterly than before, though it was mostly one-sided. And war was menacing the world again, as it would always threaten a world where there were no other escape valves for men's emotions. They needed a new frontier, free of national barriers, where the headstrong could fight nature instead of their brothers.

He had hoped to provide that escape valve in leading men to another planet, just as Stewart hoped. But would either of them succeed? Erin was sure of Stewart's ultimate failure—explosives couldn't do the trick; though he had enough of a sense of humor to realize that Stewart was saying the same thing about him and his method. If only there could be peace until he finished!

Shaw was waiting impatiently, swearing' coldly in a voice Erin hadn't heard since the days when Tom was tricked out of a discovery by a company for which he'd worked as metallurgist, and he joined the men on the island. "The mail's in," he said, breaking off his flow of invectives. "Here's a present from Captain Hitchkins—says he can't get the cargo of beryllium alloy we ordered made up. And here's the letter from the Beryl Company."

Erin picked up the letter and read it slowly. It began with too profuse apologies, then cited legal outs: "—will realize that we are not breaking our contract by this action, since it contains a clause to the effect that our own needs shall come first. Mr. G. R. Stewart, who has controlling interest in our company, has requisitioned our entire supply, and we are advised by our legal department that this contingency is covered by the clause mentioned. Therefore we can no longer furnish the alloy you desire. We regret—"

He skimmed the passage of regret and polite lies, to center on a

sentence at the end, which conveyed the real message, and revealed the source of the letter. "We doubt that you can secure beryllium alloy at any price, as we are advised that Mr. Stewart is using all that the market can supply. If such is not the case, we shall, of course, be glad to extend our best wishes in your enterprise."

"How about that?" he asked Shaw, pointing to the last sentence. "Have you investigated?"

"Don't need to. Hitchkins showed more brains than I gave him credit for. He scoured the market for us, on his own initiative, and beryllium just ain't." Shaw passed over the other letters that had come, reverting to his invectives. "Now what do we do?"

"Without beryllium, nothing. We'll have to get it, someway." But Erin wondered. Whatever else Stewart was, he was thorough, and his last stroke had been more than the expected major move.

V

The supper table had turned into a conference room, since news of that importance was impossible to keep. Even Doug Wratten had partially forgotten his own troubles, and was watching Erin. Kung stood unnoticed in the doorway, his moon face picturing the general gloom.

Dutch Bauer finished his explanation and concluded. "So, that is it. No beryllium, no Santa Maria. Even aluminum alloys are too heavy for good design. Aluminum—bah! Hopeless." He shrugged and spread his pudgy hands to show just how hopeless it was.

Jimmy grunted and considered. "How about magnesium alloys— something like magnalium?" he asked, but without much hope. "It's even lighter than beryllium—1.74 density instead of 1.8."

"Won't work." Their eyes had turned to Shaw, who was the metallurgist, and his answer was flat. "Alloys aren't high enough in melting point, aren't hard enough, and don't have the strength of the one we've been using. When the ship uses the air for braking, or when the sun shines on it in space, we'll need something that won't soften up at ordinary temperatures; and that means beryllium."

"Then how about the foreign markets?" Jack wanted to know. "My fa ... Mr. Stewart can't control all of them."

Erin shook his head. "No luck. They're turning all they can get into bombing planes and air torpedoes. They're not interested in idealism."

"I liked that new helix, too." Jack tapped his fingers on the table, then snapped them out flat. "Well, there goes a nice piece of applied

atomics. We should have bought our own beryllium plant, I guess."

"And have to close down because Stewart gained control of the new process for getting beryllium out of its ores." Shaw grunted. "We'd have had to fall back on the old process of extracting it by dissolving out in alkalies."

Erin looked up suddenly, staring at Shaw. "When I was first starting," he said thoughtfully, "I considered buying one of the old plants. It's still standing, all the machinery in place, but it's been closed down by the competition of the new process. The owner's hard up, but he can't sell the place for love or money."

Jimmy's face dropped its scowl and came forth with a fresh grin; even the mention of a faint hope was enough to send up his enthusiasm. "So we buy it or get him to open up, start using it, and go ahead in spite of Stewart. How much does the old system cost, Dad?"

"About fifteen hundred dollars a ton, using a couple of tricks I could show them. Going to try it, Erin?"

Erin nodded silently, but the frown was still on his face as he got up and went out to the new office where he could use the visiphone. The plant had a maximum capacity of four tons a week, which was hardly adequate, and there were other objections, but trying would do no harm. The frown was heavier when he came back.

"Sanders will open up," he reported, "but he'll need money to fix the plant up. He agrees to turn the plant over to us, and furnish the alloy at the price Tom mentioned, but we'll have to invest about sixty thousand in new equipment. Add that to the cost of the metal, and it runs to a rather steep figure."

"But-"

"I know. I'm not kicking about the money, or wouldn't be if I had it to spend." Erin hadn't meant to tell them of his own troubles, but there was no way to avoid it now. "Stewart left nothing to chance. The stocks and investments I had began to slip a month ago, and they kept slipping. My brokers advised me that they have liquidated everything, and I have about ten cents on a dollar left; today's mail brought their letter along with the other news."

Jack swore hotly. "Da—Stewart always could ruin a man on the market. Erin, I've got a decent legacy from my mother, and we're practically running a co-operative here, anyhow. It's all yours."

Erin saw suddenly just what the loss of the boy had meant to Stewart, and the last of numbness from his own son's death slipped away. His smile was as sweet as a woman's, but he shook his head. "Did you read your mail today?"

"No, why?"

"Because Stewart would know his own son well enough to take precautions. See if I'm not right."

They watched intently as the letters came out of Jack's pocket and were sorted. He selected one bulky one and ripped it open hastily, drawing out the paper where all could see, skimming over it until it formed a complete picture. "It almost seems that someone is deliberately trying to ruin you,'" he read. " 'Our best efforts have failed completely—' Damn! There's about enough left to pay for the new machinery needed, and that's all."

Doug came out of his trance. "I won't be needing my savings for the future now," he said grimly. "It's not much, but I'd appreciate your using it, Erin. And I don't think any of us will want the salary you've been paying us."

The others nodded. All of them had been paid more than well, and had had no chance to spend much of their salary. Their contributions were made as a matter of course, and Erin totaled them.

"It may be enough," he said. "Of course, we form a closed corporation, all profits—if there are any from this—being distributed. I'll have the legal papers drawn up. Perhaps it will be enough, perhaps not, but we can put it to the test. Our big trouble is that we need new workers, men to help Hank particularly. Most of the machining will have to be done here on the island now."

"Mebbeso you fella catchee plenty man." Kung hobbled forward to the table, a dirty leather sack in his hands. "You fella catchee li'l planet, fin' allee same time catchee time makee free." His jargon went on, growing too thick for them to understand.

Tom Shaw held up a protesting hand. "Talk chink," he ordered. "I spent five years there once, so I can get the lingo if you take your time."

Kung threw him a surprised and grateful glance, and broke into a rambling discourse, motioning toward the sky, the bag in his hand, and counting on his fingers.

Shaw turned back to the others.

"He says he wants to join up, putting in the money he's been saving for his funeral when they ship his body back to China. Wants to know if his race will be allowed on the other planets when we reach them?"

"Tell him the planets are big enough for all races, provided ships are built to carry them."

"Very good, boss fella, sawee plenty." Kung lapsed again into Peking dialect.

"He says he can get us workers then, who'll obey with no questions asked, and won't cost us more than enough to buy them cheap food. His tong will be glad to furnish them on his say-so. Since Japan conquered them and they digested the Japanese into their own nation again, it seems they need room to expand.

"Darn it, Erin, with even the Chinese cook behind you, we're bound to beat Stewart."

VI

Captain Hitchkins had left the unloading to the ruffian he called his mate and was examining the progress made on the island. His rough English face was a curious blend of awe and skepticism. "Naow was that 'ere a ship, mitey," he told Erin, "I'd s'y 'twas a maost seaworthy job, that I would, thaough she's lackin' a bit o' keel. 'N' I m'y allaow as she's not bad, not bad atawl."

Erin left him talking, paying as little attention to his speech as the captain would have to a landlubber's comments on the tub of a freighter. Hitchkins was entirely satisfied with that arrangement. The Santa Maria could speak for herself.

The hull was completed, except for a section deliberately left open for the admission of the main atomic generator, and a gleaming coat of silver lacquer had been applied, to give the necessary luster for the deflection of the sun's rays. In comparison to a seagoing ship, she was small, but here on the ways, seen by herself, she loomed up like some monster out of a fantasy book. Even with the motors installed and food for six years stocked, she still held a comfortable living space for the eight men who would go with her.

"I've heard as 'aow they've a new lawr passed, mikin' aout against the like o' such, thaough," Hitchkins went on. "Naow w'y would they do that?"

"People are always afraid of new things, Captain. I'm not worried about it, though." Erin turned over the bills of lading. "Have any trouble this trip?"

"Some o' the men were minded the p'y was a bit laow. But they chinged their minds w'en they come to, that they did." He chuckled. "I've a bit o' a w'y wi' the men, sir."

They were back at the dock now, watching the donkey engines laboring under the load of alloy plates that was being transferred to the machine shop. The Chinese laborers were sweating and strug-

gling with the trucks on which these were hauled, but they grinned at him and nodded. He had no complaint with the labor Kung had obtained. If the money held out, things looked hopeful.

Jack Stewart located him, and yelled. "There's a Mr. Stewart at the office," he said flatly. "He came while you were showing Captain Hitchkins the ship, and is waiting for you. Shall I tell him to go on waiting?"

"No, I'll see him; might as well find out the worst." Stewart had visiphoned that he was coming under a temporary truce, so Erin was not surprised. "Carry on, Captain." He turned after Jack toward the shack, wishing the boy would treat his father a little less coldly. It wasn't good for a man to feel that way about his father, and he wished Stewart no personal problems.

Jack swung off toward the ship as they sighted Stewart, and the older man's eyes followed the retreating figure.

"He's a good boy, Greg," Erin said, not unkindly. "I didn't plan this, you know."

"Skip it. He's no concern of mine, the stubborn ass." Stewart held out a newspaper. "I thought you might be interested to know that the law has been passed against the use of atomic power in any spaceship. It just went through the state legislature and was signed by the governor."

"Don't you think it's a bit high-handed? I thought that interstate and international commerce was out of the hands of the state legislature."

Stewart tapped the paper. "But there's no provision against their ruling on interplanetary commerce, Erin. A few scare stories in the Sunday supplements, and a few dinners to the right men did the trick. They were sure the Martians might find the secret and turn atomic power back on us."

"So you had to come and bring me the news. I suppose you expect me to quit now and twiddle my thumbs."

"That offer of a berth on my ship—which will work—still stands. Of course, if I have to get out an injunction to stop you, it will make matters a little more difficult, but the result will be the same."

Erin smiled grimly. "That was the poorest move you've made, Greg," he said. "Your lawmakers bungled. I read the law, and it forbids the use of atomic power in the 'vacuum of space.' And good scientists will tell you that a vacuum is absolute nothing in space-but between the planets, at least, there are a few molecules of matter to the cubic inch. Your law and injunction won't work."

"You've seen a lawyer, I suppose?"

"I have, and he assures me there's nothing to stop me. Furthermore, until I reach space, the law doesn't apply, and when I'm in space, no Earth-made laws can govern me."

Stewart shrugged. "So you've put one over on me again. You always were persistent, Erin. The only man I haven't been able to beat —yet. Maybe I'll have to wait until your crazy ship fails, but I hope not."

"I'll walk down to the dock with you," Erin offered. "Drop in any time you want to, provided you come alone." He was feeling almost friendly now that success was in sight. Stewart fell in beside him, his eyes turned toward the group of laborers Jack was directing.

"I suppose—" he began, and stopped.

"He goes along, according to his own wishes."

Stewart grunted. "You realize, Erin, that one false attempt might set the possibility of the public's accepting rocket flight back fifty years. And the men in the ship would be—well, wouldn't be." He hesitated. "How much would you take to stop it?"

"You know better than that." But Erin realized that the question was more an automatic reaction than anything else. When Stewart asked that, he could see no other solution, and money had been his chief weapon since he made his first fortune.

As the man left in the little boat that had brought him, Erin wondered, though. Was Stewart licked, for once and for all? Or was it only the combination of seeing his son turned against him, and finding his carefully laid scheme hadn't made a decent fizzle? He shrugged and dismissed it. There seemed little more chance for trouble, but if it came, it would be the unexpected, and worry would do no good.

It was the unexpected, but they were not entirely unwarned. The first pale light of the false dawn showed when a commotion at the door awakened them. Doug got up grumpily and went groping to* ward the key. "Some darned Chinese in a fight, I suppose," he began.

Then he let out a sound that scarcely fitted a human throat and jerked back in. The others could see only two small, rounded arms that came up around his neck, and a head of hair that might have been brown in a clearer light. The voice was almost hysterical.

"Doug! Oh, I was afraid I wouldn't get here in time."

"Helen!" Doug's words were frigid, but he trembled under the robe. "What are—don't start anything. ... I saw the letter."

They could see her more clearly now, and Jimmy whistled. No

wonder Doug had taken it so hard. She was almost crying, and her arms refused to let him go. "I knew you'd seen the first page—part of it. But you didn't read it all."

"Well?" Only the faintest ghost of a doubt tinged his inflection.

"I wasn't just acting the Saturday before; I meant it. That's why I was writing the letter—to tell Mr. Stewart I was through with him." She groped into her purse and came out with a wrinkled sheet. "Here, you can see for yourself. And then you were gone and I found this in the wastebasket where you threw it, so I didn't quit. I thought you'd never speak to me. Believe me, Doug!"

His wizened little face wasn't funny now, though two red spots showed up ridiculously on his white skin. His long, tapering fingers groped toward her, touched, and then drew back. She caught them quickly. "Well—" he said. Then: "What are you doing here, anyhow, Helen . . . Helenya?"

She jerked guiltily. "Stewart. His lieutenant—Russell—wanted the combination to your alarm system again—forgot it."

"You gave it?"

"I had to. Then I came here to warn you. There are a bunch of them, every rat on his force, and they're coming here. I was afraid you'd be—"

There was something almost wonderful about Doug then. All the silly cockiness and self-consciousness were gone. "All right," he said quietly. "Go back to the cook shack and stay there; you'll know where to find it. No, do as I say. We'll talk it over later, Helen. I don't want you around when it happens. Go on. Erin, Tom, you'll know what to do. I'll wake the Chinese and get them in order." And he was gone at a run.

VII

They didn't stop to dress fully, but went out into the chill air as they were. Doug had the Chinese lined up and was handing out the few spare weapons grimly, explaining while he worked. A tall North Country yellow man asked a few questions in a careful Harvard accent, then turned back and began barking orders in staccato Mandarin. Whether they would be any good in a fight was a question, but the self-appointed leader seemed to know his business. They were no cowards, at least.

Tom Shaw passed Jimmy a dried plug of tobacco. "Better take it," he advised. "When you're fighting the first time, it takes something

strong in your mouth to keep your stomach down, son. And shoot for their bellies—it's easier and just as sure."

There was no time to throw up embankments at the wharf, so they drew back to the higher ground, away from the buildings, which would have sheltered them, but covered any flanking movement by the gunmen. Jack stared incredulously at the gun in his hand, and wiped the sweat from his hands. "Better lend me some of that tobacco," he said wryly. "My stomach's already begun fighting. You using that heavy thing?"

"Sure." The gun was a sixty-pound machine rifle, equipped with homemade grips and shoulder and chest pads, set for single fire. It looked capable of crushing Shaw's lanky figure at the first recoil, but he carried it confidently. "It's been done before; grew up with a gun in my hand in the Green Mountains."

Erin rubbed a spot over his heart surreptitiously and waited. Stewart would be defeated only when he died, it seemed, and maybe not then.

Then they made out the figures in the tricky light of the dawn, long shadows that slunk silently over the dock and advanced up the hill toward the bunkhouse. Some movement must have betrayed the watchers, for one of the advancing figures let out a yell and pointed.

"Come on, mugs," a hoarse voice yelled. "Here's our meat, begging to be caught. A bonus to the first man that gets one."

Whing! Shaw twitched and swore. "Only a crease," he whispered, "and an accident. They can't shoot." He raised the heavy gun, coming upright, and aimed casually. It spoke sharply, once, twice, then in a slow tattoo. The light made the shooting almost impossible, but two of the men yelled, and one dropped.

"Make it before sunup," he warned, as the thugs drew back nervously. "The light'll hit our eyes then and give them the advantage." Then the men below evidently decided it was only one man they had to fear and came boiling up, yelling to encourage themselves; experience had never taught them to expect resistance. Shaw dropped back onto his stomach, beside the others, shooting with even precision, while Erin and Jimmy followed suit. The rest were equipped only with automatics, which did little good.

"Huh!" Jack rubbed a shoulder where blood trickled out, his eyes Still on the advance.

Erin felt the gun in his hand buck backward and realized suddenly that he was firing on the rushing men.

Jimmy's voice was surprised. "I hit a man—I think he's dead." He shivered and stuck his face back to the sights, trying to repeat it.

Shaw spat out a brown stream. "Three," he said quietly. "Out of practice, I guess."

The few Chinese with handarms attempted a cross fire as the men came abreast, but their marksmanship was hopeless. Then all were swept together, waves breaking against each other, and individual details were lost. Guns were no good at close range, and Erin dropped the rifle, grabbing quickly for the hatchet in his belt as a heavy-set man singled him out.

He saw the gun butt coming at him in the man's hand, ducked instinctively, and felt it hit somewhere. But the movement with the hatchet seemed to complete itself, and he saw the man drop. Something tingled up his spine, and the weapon came down again, viciously. Brains spattered. "Shouldn't hit a man who's down," a voice seemed to say, but the heat of fighting was on him, and he felt no . regret at the broken rule.

A sharp stab struck at his back, and he swung to see a knife flashing for a second stroke. Pivoting on his heel, he dived, striking low, and heard the knife swish by over his head. Then he grabbed, caught, and twisted, and the mobsman dropped the metal blade from a broken arm. Most of the fighting had turned away down the hill, and he moved toward the others.

Jimmy spat out a stream of tobacco in the face of an opponent, just as another swung a knife from his side. Erin jumped forward, but Tom Shaw was before him, and the knife fell limply as Shaw fired an automatic from his hip. "Five," Erin heard his dispassionate voice. Beside Shaw, Hank Vlcek was reducing heads with a short iron bar.

Erin moved into the fight again, swinging the hatchet toward a blood-covered face, not waiting to see its effects. Two of the Chinese lay quietly, and one was dragging himself away, but none of his other men seemed fatally injured. He scooped up a fallen knife, jumped for one man, and twisted suddenly to sink it in the side of Jack's opponent, then jerked toward the two who were driving Doug backward.

Doug stumbled momentarily, and something slashed down. Morse saw the little body sag limply, and threw the hatchet. Metal streaked through the air to bury itself in the throat of one of the men, and Erin's eyes flashed sideways. Kung stood there, another kitchen knife poised for the throwing. The remaining one of Doug's assailants saw

it, too, and the knife and gun seemed to work as one. Kung gasped and twisted over on his bad leg; the knife missed, but Erin's hatchet found its mark. Only a split second had elapsed, but time had telescoped out until a hundred things could be seen in one brief flash.

And then, without warning, it seemed, the battle was over and the gunmen drew back, running for the dock. Shaw grabbed for his gun and yelled, "Stop!" A whining bullet carried his message more strongly, and they halted. He spat the last of his tobacco out. "Pick up your dead and wounded, and get out! Tell Stewart he can have the bodies with our compliments!"

Russell lay a few yards off, and their leader had been the first to fall under Erin's hatchet. Lacking direction, they milled back, less than a third of the original number, and began dragging the bodies toward the dock. Shaw followed them grimly, the ugly barrel of the machine gun lending authority to his words, and Erin turned toward Doug.

The physicist was sitting up. "Shoulder," he said thickly. "Only stunned when I hit the ground. Better see about Kung over there." Then a rushing figure of a girl swooped down, taking possession of him and biting out choking cries at his wound. Erin left him in Helen's hands and turned to the cook.

It was too late. Kung had joined his ancestors, and the big Hill Country Chinese stood over him. "A regrettable circumstance, Mr. Morse," he enunciated. "Hsi Kung tendered you his compliments and requested that I carry on for him. I can assure you that our work will continue as before. In view of the fact that you are somewhat depleted as to funds, Hsi Kung has requested that his funeral be a simple one."

Erin looked at Kung's body in dull wonder; since he could remember, the man had apparently lived only that he might have a funeral whose display would impress the whole of his native village in China* "I guess we can ship him back," he said slowly. "How many others?"

'Two, sir. Three with injuries, but not fatal, I am sure. I must congratulate your men on the efficiency with which the battle was conducted. Most extraordinary."

"Thanks." Erin's throat felt dry, and his knees threatened to buckle under him, while his heart did irregular flip-flops. To him it seemed that it was more than extraordinary none of his friends were dead; all were battered up, but they had gotten off with miraculous ease. "Can some of your men cook?"

"I should feel honored, sir, if you would appoint your servant, Robert Wah, to Hsi Kung's former position."

"Good. Serve coffee to all, and the best you can find for any that want to eat—your men as well." Then, to Shaw who had come up: "Finished?"

Shaw nodded. "All gone, injured and wounded with them. Wonder if Stewart's fool enough to drag us into court over it? I didn't expect this of him."

"Neither did I, but it will be strictly private, I'm—sure." Erin's knees weakened finally, and Shaw eased him to a seat. He managed a smile at the foreman's worried face. "It's nothing—just getting old." He'd have to see a doctor about his heart soon. But there was still work to be done. With surprise, he noticed blood trickling down one arm. Stewart had done that; it was always Stewart.

VIII

The clerks in Gregory Stewart's outer office sat stiffly at their work, and the machines beat out a regular tattoo, without any of the usual interruptions for talk. Stewart's private secretary alone sat idle, biting her nails. In her thirteen years of work, she thought she had learned all the man's moods, but this was a new one.

He hadn't said anything, and there had been no blustering, but the tension in the office all came from the room in which he sat, sucking at his pipe and staring at a picture. That picture, signed "Mara," had always puzzled her. It had been there while his wife was still living, but it was not hers.

The buzzer on the PBX board broke in, and the girl operator forgot her other calls to plug in instantly. "Yes, sir," she said hastily. "Erin Morse, on Kroll Island. I have the number. Right away, sir."

She could have saved her unusual efforts; at the moment, Stewart was not even conscious of her existence. He stared at the blank visi-screen, his lips moving, but no sound came out. There was a set speech by his side, written carefully in the last hour, but now that he had made his decision, he crumpled it and tossed it in the waste-basket.

The screen snapped into life, and the face of his son was on it, a face that froze instantly. At least they were open for calls today, which was unusual; ordinarily, no one answered the buzzer. Stewart's eyes centered on the swelling under the shirt, where the boy's wound was bandaged. "Jack," he said quickly. "You all right?"

The boy's voice was not the one he knew. 'Tour business, sir?"

Humbleness came hard to Stewart, who had fought his way up from the raw beginnings only because he lacked it. Now it was the only means to his end. "I'd like to speak to Erin, please."

"Mr. Morse is busy." The boy reached for the switch, but the other's quick motion stayed his hand.

"This is important. I'm not fighting this morning."

Jack shrugged, wincing at the dart of pain, and turned away. Stewart watched him fade from the screen's focus and waited patiently until Erin's face came into view. It was a tired face, and the erect shoulders were less erect this time.

Morse stared into the viewer without a change of expression. "Well, Stewart?"

"The fight's over, Erin." It was the hardest sentence Stewart had ever spoken, but he was glad to get it over. "I hadn't meant things to work out the way they did, last night. That was Russell's idea, the dirty rat, and I'm not sorry he found his proper reward. When I do any killing, I'll attend to it myself."

Erin still stared at him with a set face, and he went on, digging out every word by sheer willpower. "I'd meant them to blow up your ship, I admit. Maybe that would have been worse, I don't know. But Russell must have had a killing streak in him somewhere, and took things into his own hands. Who was killed?"

"A Chinese cook and two others of the same race. Your men might have done more."

"Maybe. Men might have. Yellow river rats never could put up a decent fight against opposition of the caliber you've got!" Stewart checked off a point on a small list and asked, "Any relatives of the dead?"

"The cook had an uncle in China—he must have slipped over the border, since he's not American-born. I'm shipping him back with the best funeral I can afford. The others came from Chinatown."

"I'll have the cook picked up today and see that he gets a funeral" with a thousand paid mourners. The same to the others, and ten thousand cash to the relatives of each. No, I'd rather; I'm asking it as a favor, Erin."

Erin smiled thinly. "If you wish. Your rules may be queer, from my standards, but it seems you do have a code of your own. I'm glad of that, even if it's a bit rough."

Stewart twitched his mouth jerkily; that hurt, somehow. Erin had a habit of making him seem inferior. Perhaps his code was not the •porting one, but it did include two general principles: mistakes

aren't rectified by alibis, and a man who has proved himself your equal deserves respect.

"I don't fight a better man, anyway, Erin," he admitted slowly. "You took all I handed out and came up fighting. So you'll have no trouble getting supplies from now on, and we'll complete this race on equal footing. How did Jack take it?"

"Like a man, Greg." In all the years of their enmity, neither had quite dropped the use of first names, and Erin's resentment was melting. "He's a fine boy. You sired well."

"Thank God for that, at least. Erin, you hold a patent on an air-reconditioning machine, and I need it. The government's building submarines, and I can get a nice bunch of contracts if I can supply that and assure them of good air for as long as they want to stay under." Stewart's voice had gone businesslike. "Would ten percent royalties and a hundred thousand down buy all but space rights? It's not charity, if that worries you."

"I didn't think it was." For himself, the price mattered little, but here was a chance to pay back some of the money the others had invested with him. He made his decision instantly. "Send over your contracts, and I'll sign them."

"Good. Now, with all threats gone, how about that berth on my ship I offered you? She'll be finished in a week, with a dependable fuel, and there's room for one more."

Erin smiled broadly now at Stewart's old skepticism of his methods. "Thanks, but the Santa Maria is practically done, too, using a dependable power source. Why not come with me?"

It was Stewart's turn to smile. And as he cut connections, it seemed to him that even the face in the picture was smiling for the first time in almost forty years.

Erin rubbed his wounded arm tenderly and wondered what it would feel like to go ahead without a constant, lurking fear. At the moment, the change was too radical for his comprehension. Things looked too easy.

IX

The Santa Maria was off the skids, and the ground swell on the ocean bobbed her up and down gently, like a horse champing at the bit. Not clipper built, Erin thought, but something they could be proud of. Now that she was finished, all the past trouble seemed unreal, like some disordered nightmare.

"Jack and I are making a test run at once," he announced. "It'll be

dark in a few minutes, so you can follow our jets and keep account of our success or failure. No, just the two of us, this first time. We're going up four thousand miles and coming back down."

"How many of us go on the regular trip?" Jimmy wanted to know. "Dutch says he'll stay on the ground and design them. Since Doug's turned into a married man, he'll stay with his wife, I suppose, but how about the rest?"

They nodded in unison; though there had been no decision, it had always been understood that all were to go. Doug wrapped his arm possessively around Helen and faced Erin. "I'm staying with my wife, all right," he stated, "but she's coming along. Why should men hog all the glory?"

Erin glanced at the girl hastily. This had not been in the plans. "I'm going," she said simply, and he nodded. This thing was too great for distinction of sex—or race. He motioned to Robert Wah who stood in the background, looking on wistfully, and the tall Chinese bowed deeply.

"I should be honored, sir, by the privilege." Pleasure lighted his face quickly, and he moved forward unobtrusively, adding himself to their company. That made eight, the number the ship was designed for.

Jack was already climbing into the port, and Erin turned to follow him, motioning the others back. There was no need risking additional lives on this first test, though he felt confident of this gleaming monster he had dreamed and fought for.

"Ready?" he asked, strapping himself in. Jack nodded silently, and Erin's fingers reached for the firing keys. They were trembling a little. Here under them lay the work of a lifetime. Suppose Stewart was right, after all? He shook the sudden doubt from himself, and the keys came down under his fingers.

The great ship spun around in the water, pointing straight out toward Europe. The ground swell made the first few seconds rough riding, but she gathered speed under her heels and began skimming the crests until her motion was perfectly even. All the years Erin had

•pent in training, in planning, and in imagining a hundred times every emergency and its answers rose in his mind, and the metal

•round him became almost an extension of his body.

Now she was barely touching the water, though there was a great wake behind her that seethed and boiled. Then the wake came to

•n end, and she rose in the air around her, the stubby fins supporting her at the speed she was making. Erin opened up the motors, tilting

the stick delicately in his hand, and she leaped through the air like a soul torn free. He watched the hull pyrometers, but the tough alloy could stand an amazing amount of atmospheric friction.

"Climb!" he announced at last, and the nose began tilting up smoothly. The rear-viewer on the instrument board showed the waves running together and the ocean seemed to drop away from them and shrink. At half power she was rising rapidly in a vertical climb. "Look!" Jack's voice cut through the heady intoxication Erin felt, and he took his eyes from the panel. Off to the side, and at some distance, a long streak of light climbed into the sky, reached their height, and went on. Even through the insulated hull, a faint booming sound reached them. "Stewart's ship! He's beat us to the start!" "The fool!" The cry was impulsive, and he saw the boy wince under it slightly. "There might be some small chance, though. I hope he makes it. He'll follow an orbit that takes the least amount of fuel, and we'll be cutting through with at least a quarter gravity all the way for comfort. He can't beat us."

The course of the other ship, he could see, held true and steady. Stewart knew how to pilot; holding that top-heavy mass of metal on its tail was no small job.

Jack gripped the straps that held him to his seat, but said nothing, his eyes glued on the blast that mushroomed down from the other ship, until it passed out of sight. Behind the Santa Maria, the pale-blue jet looked insignificant after seeing the other. Something prickled oddly at Erin's skin, and he wondered whether it was the Heaviside layer, but it passed and there was only the press of acceleration.

He opened up again as the air dropped behind, and the smooth hum of the atomics answered sweetly. Jack released himself and hitched his way toward the rear observation room, then fought the acceleration back to Erin's side. "Jets are perfect," he reported. "Not a waver, and they're holding in line perfectly. No danger to the tubes. How high?"

"Two hundred miles, and we're making about twenty-five miles a minute now. Get back to your seat, son, I'm holding her up." He tapped the keys for more power, and grunted as the pull struck them. By the time they were a few thousand miles out, most of Earth's gravity would be behind them, and they wouldn't have that added pressure to contend with. Acceleration alone was bad enough.

At the two-thousand-mile limit, Morse twisted the wheel of the control stick and began spinning her over on her tail. Steering without the leverage of atmosphere was tricky, though part of his train-

ing had taken that into account, to the best of his ability. He completed the reversal finally, and set the keys for a deceleration that would stop them at the four-thousand-mile limit.

Jack was staring out at the brilliant points made by the stars against the black of space, but he gasped as Erin cut the motors. "How far?" he asked again. "There seems to be almost no gravity."

"Earth is still pulling us, but only a quarter strength. We've reached the four-thousand mark we planned—and proved again that gravity obeys the laws of inverse squares." The novelty of the sensation appealed to him, but the relief from the crushing weight was his real reason for cutting power. Now his heart labored from weight and excitement, and he caught his breath, waiting for it to steady before turning back.

"Ready?" he asked finally, and power came on. They were already moving slowly back, drawn by the planet's pull. "Hold tight; I'm going to test my steering." Under his hands the stick moved this way and that, and the ship struggled to answer, sliding into great slow curves that would have been sudden twists and turns in the air. All his ingenuity in schooling himself hadn't fully compensated for the difficulties, but practice soon straightened out the few kinks left.

His breath was coming in short gasps as he finished; the varying Itress of gravity and acceleration had hit hard at him, and there was a dull thumping in his chest. "Take over, Jack," he ordered, holding his words steady. "Do you good to learn. Half acceleration."

But the thumping went on, seeming to grow worse. Each breath came out with an effort. Jack was intent on the controls, though there was little to do for the moment, and did not notice; for that, Erin was grateful. He really had to see a doctor; only fear of the diagnosis had made him put it off this long.

"Reversal," Jack called. He began twisting the control, relying on^ pure mathematics and quick reactions to do the trick. They began to come around, but Erin could feel it was wrong. The turn went too far, was inaccurately balanced, and the ship picked up a lateral spin that would give rise to other difficulties. Here was one place where youth and youth's quick reflexes were useless. It took the steady hand of calculating judgment, and the head that had imagined this so often it all seemed old.

He fought his way forward, pressing back the heart that seemed to burst through his chest. Jack was doing his best, but he was not the ihip's master. He welcomed Erin's hand that reached down for the Mick. Experience had corrected the few mistakes of 'the previous re-

versal, and the ship began to come around in one long, accurate blast. When it stopped, her tail was steadily blasting against Earth. "I'll carry on." Erin knew he had to, since descent, even in an atmosphere, was far trickier than it might seem. To balance the speed so that the air-fins supported her, without tearing them off under too much pressure required no small skill. He buckled himself back in, and let her fall rapidly. Time was more important, something told him, than the ease of a slower descent. He waited till the last moment before tapping on more power, heard the motors thrum solidly, and waited for the first signs of air. The pyrometer needles rose quickly, but not to their danger point. The tingling feeling lashed through him again, and was gone, and he began maneuvering her into a spiral that would set her down in the water where she could coast to the island.

He glanced back at the boy, whose face expressed complete trust, and bit at his lips, but his main concern was for the ship. Once destroyed, that might never be duplicated. Time, he prayed, only time enough. The ocean was coming into view through thin clouds below, but it still seemed too far. "God!" Jack's cry cut into his worries. "To the left—it's the other

ship."

Erin stole a quick glance at the window, and saw a ragged streak of fire in the distance. Stewart's ship must have failed. But there was no time for that. The ocean was near, now.

He cut into a long flat glide, striving for the delicate balance of speed and angle that would set her down without a rebound, and held her there. A drag from the friction of the water told him finally that she was down. More by luck than design, his landing was near the takeoff point, and the island began poking up dimly through the darkness. He threw on the weak forward jets, guessing at the distance, and juggled the controls.

There was a red knot of pain in his chest and a mist in front of his eyes that made seeing difficult, but he let her creep in until the wood timbers of the dock stood out clearly. Then the mist turned black, and he had only time to cut all controls. He couldn't feel the light crunch as she touched the shore.

Erin was in bed in the bunkhouse when consciousness returned, and his only desire was to rest and relax. The strange man bending over him seemed about to interfere, and he shoved him away weakly. Tom Shaw bent over him, putting his hands back and holding them until he desisted.

"The ship is perfect," Tom's voice assured him, oddly soft for the foreman. "We're all proud of you, Erin, and the doctor says there's no danger now."

"Stewart?" he asked weakly.

"His ship went out a few thousand miles, and the tubes couldn't stand the concentrated heat of his jets. Worked all right on small models, but the volume of explosives was cubed with the square of the tube diameter, and it was too much. We heard his radio after he cut through the Heaviside, and he was trying to bring her down at low power without burning them out completely. We haven't heard from the rescue squad, but they hope the men are safe."

The strange man clucked disapprovingly. "Not too much talk," he warned. "Let him rest."

Erin stirred again, plucking at the covers. So he finally was seeing a doctor, whether he wanted to or not. "Is there—" he asked. "Am I

—grounded?"

Shaw's hand fell over his, and the grizzled head nodded. "Sorry, Erin."

X

Erin stood in the doorway of the bunkhouse, looking out over the buildings toward the first star to come out. Venus, of course, but Mars would soon show up. He had not yet told the men that the flight was off, and they were talking contentedly behind him, discussing what they would find on Mars.

A motorboat's drone across the water caught his attention and he turned his eyes to the ocean. "There's someone coming," he announced. "At least they seem to be headed this way."

Jimmy jumped up, scattering the cards he had been playing with his father. "Darn! Must be the reporters. I notified the press that tonight was supposed to be the takeoff and forgot to tell them it was. postponed when you came back from the test. Shall I send them back?"

"Bring them up. There should be room enough for them here. Have Wah serve coffee." Erin moved back toward his bunk, being careful to take it easy, and sank down. "There's something I have to tell them—and you at the same time."

Helen brought him his medicine and he took it, wondering what reception his words would have with the newspapermen. Previous experience had made him expect the worst. But these men were quiet

•nd orderly as they filed in, taking seats around the recreation tables.

Even though it had failed, Stewart's flight had taught them that rocketry was a serious business. Also, they were picked men from the syndicates, not the young cubs he had dealt with before. Wah brought in coffee and brandy.

"Your man tells us the flight has been delayed," one of them began. He showed no resentment at the long ride by rail and boat for nothing. "Can you tell us, then, when you're planning to make it, and give us some idea of the principle of flight you use?"

"Jimmy can give you mimeographed sheets of the ship's design and power system," Erin answered. "But the flight is put off indefinitely. Probably it will be months before it occurs, and possibly years. It depends on how quickly I can transfer my knowledge to a younger man."

"But we understood a successful trial had been made, with no trouble."

"No mechanical trouble, that is. But, gentlemen, no matter how perfectly built a machine may be, the human element must always be considered. In this case, it failed. I've been ordered not to leave the ground."

There were gasps from his own men, and the tray in Wah's hands spilled to the floor, unnoticed. Shaw and Jack moved about among the others, speaking in low voices.

Among the newspapermen, bewilderment substituted for consternation. "I fail to see—" the spokesman said.

Erin found it difficult to explain to laymen, but he tried an example. "When the Wright brothers made their first power flights, they had already gotten practice from gliders. But suppose one of them had been given a plane without previous experience and told to fly it across the Atlantic? This, to a much greater extent, is like that.

"Perhaps later, if rocketry becomes established, men can be given flight training in a few weeks. Until then, only those who have spent years of ground work can hope to master the more difficult problems of astronautics. This may sound like boasting to you, but an immediate flight without myself as pilot is out of the question."

Jack struck in, silencing their questioning doubts. "I tried it, up there," he told them, "and I had some experience with radio-controlled models. But mathematics and intelligence, or even a good understanding of the principles involved, aren't enough. It's like skating on frictionless ice, trying to cut a figure eight against a strong head wind. Without Erin, I wouldn't be here."

They accepted the fact, and Erin went on. "Two men, to my knowl-

edge, spent the time and effort to acquire the basic ground work —Gregory Stewart and myself. Even though he crashed, killing two of his men, he demonstrated his ability to hold a top-heavy ship on its course under the most trying conditions. To some extent, I have proved my own ability. But Stewart has no ship and I have no pilot. Mars will have to wait until one of my own men can be given adequate preparation."

The spokesman tapped his pencil against a pad of paper and considered. "But, since each of you lacks what the other has, why not let Stewart pilot your ship? Apparently he's willing to give up his interests here and try for some other planet."

"Because he doesn't consider my ship safe." Erin knew that it might prove detrimental to their acceptance of his design, but that couldn't be helped. "Stewart and I have always been rivals, less even in fact than in ideas. Now that his own ship proved faulty, he'd hardly be willing to risk one in which he has no faith."

A broad man in the background stirred uneasily, drawing his hat farther down over his face, which was buried in his collar. "Have you asked him?" he demanded in a muffled voice.

"No." It had never occurred to Erin to do so. "If you insist, I'll call him, but there can be only one answer."

The heavy man stood up, throwing back his hat and collar. "You might consult me before quoting my opinion, Erin," Gregory Stewart stated. "Even a fool sometimes has doubts of his own wisdom." The eyes of those in the room riveted on him, but he swung to his son, who was staring harder than the others. "Will the Santa Maria get to Mars?" he asked.

Jack nodded positively. "It will get there, and back. I'm more than willing to stake my own life on that. But you—"

"Good. I'll take your word for it, Jack, with the test flight to back it up. How about it, Erin?" He swung to his rival, some of the old arrogance in his voice. "Maybe I'd be glory-hogging, but I understand you're in the market for a pilot, like to see my letters of reference?"

Strength flowed back into Erin's legs, and he came to his feet with a smile, his hand outstretched. "I think you'll prove entirely satisfactory, Greg." It had been too sudden for any of them to realize fully, but one of the photographers sensed the dramatic, and his flashbulb flared whitely. The others were not slow in following suit.

"When?" a reporter asked. "Expect to be ready in the near future?"

"Why not now? The time's about right, and my affairs are in order. Is everything ready here?" Judging from their looks that it was, Stewart took over authority with the ease of old habit. "All right, who's coming? A woman? How about you, Jack?"

Jack's voice was brisk, but the cold had thawed from it. "Count me in, Dad. I'm amateur copilot."

"Me, I think I go too," Dutch Bauer decided. "Maybe then I can build better when I come back."

Erin counted them, and rechecked. "But that's nine," he demurred. "The ship is designed for eight."

Tom Shaw corrected him. "It's only eight, Erin. I've decided to let Jimmy carry on the family tradition. Shall we stay here and watch them take-off?"

There was a mad rush for the few personal belongings that were to go, and a chorus of hasty good-byes. Then they were gone, the reporters with them, and the two men stood quietly studying each other. Erin smiled at his foreman, an unexpected mist in his eyes. "Thanks, Tom. You needn't have done that."

"One in the family's enough. Besides, Dutch wanted to go." His voice was gruff as he steadied Erin to the door and stood looking out at the mob around the spaceship. The reporters were busy, getting last words, taking pictures, and the Chinese laborers were clustered around Wah, saying their own adieus. Then Greg's heavy roar came up, and they tumbled back away from the ship, while the men who were to go filed in. The great port closed slowly and the first faint trial jets blasted out.

Confidence seemed to flow into the tubes, and they whistled and bellowed happily, twisting the ship and sending her out over the water in a moonsilvered path. Erin saw for the first time the fierce power that lay in her as she dropped all normal bounds and went forward in a headlong rush. Stewart was lifting her rather soon, but she took it and was off.

They followed the faint streak she made in the air until it was invisible, and a hum from the speaker sent Shaw to the radio. Greg's voice came through. "Sweet ship, Erin, if you hear me. I'll send you a copy of Gunga Dhin from Mars. Be seeing you."

Erin stayed in the doorway, watching the stars that looked down

from the point where the Santa Maria had vanished. 'Tom," he said at

last, "I wish you'd take my Bible and turn to the last chapter of

Deuteronomy. You'll know what I mean."

A minute later Shaw's precise reading voice reached him. "'And

the Lord said unto Moses, This is the land which I sware unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, saying, I will give it unto thy seed: I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither.'"

"At least I have seen it, Tom; the stars look different up there." Erin took one final look and turned back into the room. "Until the reporters come back here, how about a game of rummy?"