you use the fuel anywhere and anyhow you like, with something like ninety-two
percent recovery of energy. But you could junk the power sequence, if you wanted
to.”
King’s first wild hope of a way out of his dilemma was dashed; he subsided.
“Go ahead. Tell me about it.”
“Well-it’s a matter of artificial radioactives. Just before I asked for that
special research allotment, Erickson and I-Doctor Lentz had a finger in it too,” he
acknowledged with an appreciative nod to the psychiatrist, “-found two isotopes that
seemed to be mutually antagonistic. That is, when we goosed ’em in the presence of
each other they gave up their latent energy all at once- blew all to hell. The
important point is we were using just a gnat’s whisker of mass of each-the reaction
didn’t require a big mass to maintain it.”
“I don’t see,” objected King, “how that could-”
“Neither do we, quite-but it works. We’ve kept it quiet until we were sure.
We checked on what we had, and we found a dozen other fuels. Probably we’ll be able
to tailor-make fuels for any desired purpose. But here it is.” He handed him a bound
sheaf of typewritten notes which he had been carrying under his arm. “That’s your
copy. Look it over.”
King started to do so. Lentz joined him, after a look that was a silent
request for permission, which Erickson had answered with his only verbal
contribution, “Sure, doc.”
As King read, the troubled feelings of an acutely harassed executive left
him. His dominant personality took charge, that of the scientist. He enjoyed the
controlled and cerebral ecstasy of the impersonal seeker for the elusive truth. The
emotions felt in his throbbing thalamus were permitted only to form a sensuous
obbligato for the cold flame of cortical activity. For the time being, he was sane,
more nearly completely sane than most men ever achieve at any time.
For a long period there was only an occasional grunt, the clatter of turned
pages, a nod of approval. At last he put it down.
“It’s the stuff,” he said. “You’ve done it, boys. It’s great; I’m proud of
you.”
Erickson glowed a bright pink, and swallowed. Harper’s small, tense figure
gave the ghost of a wriggle, reminiscent of a wire-haired terrier receiving
approval. “That’s fine, Chief. We’d rather hear you say that than get the Nobel
Prize.”
“I think you’ll probably get it. However”-the proud light in his eyes died
down-“I’m not going to take any action in this matter.”
“Why not, Chief?” His tone was bewildered.
“I’m being retired. My successor will take over in the near future; this is
too big a matter to start just before a change in administration.”
“You being retired! What the bell?”
“About the same reason I took you off watch-at least, the directors think
so.”
“But that’s nonsense! You were right to take me off the watch-list; I was
getting jumpy. But you’re another matter-we all depend on you.”
Page 34
“Thanks, Cal-but that’s how it is; there’s nothing to be done about it.” He
turned to Lentz. “I think this is the last ironical touch needed to make the whole
thing pure farce,” he observed bitterly. “This thing is big, bigger than we can
guess at this stage-and I have to give it a miss.”
“Well,” Harper burst out, “I can think of something to do about it!” He
strode over to King’s desk and snatched up the manuscript. “Either you superintend
the exploitation, or the Company can damn well get along without our discovery!”
Erickson concurred belligerently.
“Wait a minute.” Lentz had the floor. “Doctor Harper… have you already
achieved a practical rocket fuel?”
“I said so. We’ve got it on hand now.”
“An escape-speed fuel?” They understood his verbal shorthand a fuel that
would lift a rocket free of the earth’s gravitational pull.
“Sure. Why, you could take any of the Clipper rockets, refit them a trifle,
and have breakfast on the moon.”
“Very well. Bear with me. . . .” He obtained a sheet of paper from King, and
commenced to write. They watched in mystified impatience. He continued briskly for
some minutes, hesitating only momentarily. Presently he stopped, and spun the paper