“Eh? What do you mean, my dear?”
“I mean, let the boy go to the moon, if he can. I know what I said, and you’ve put up a good argument for me. But I’ve listened and learned. Doctor Cargraves is right; I was wrong. We can’t expect to keep them in the nest.”
“Oh, I know what I said,” she went on, “but a mother is bound to cry a little. Just the same, this country was not built by people who were afraid to go. Ross’s great-great-grandfather crossed the mountains in a Conestoga wagon and homesteaded this place. He was nineteen, his bride was seventeen. It’s a matter of family record that their parents opposed the move.” She stirred suddenly and one of her knitting needles broke.
“I would hate to think that I had let the blood run thin.” She got up and went quickly from the room.
Mr. Jenkins’ shoulders sagged. “You have my permission, Ross,” he said presently. “Doctor, I wish you good luck. And now, if you will excuse me.
He followed his wife.
Chapter 5: GROWING PAINS
“HOW MUCH FARTHER?” The noise of the stripped-down car combined with desert wind caused Art to shout. “Look at the map,” Ross said, his hands busy at the wheel in trying to avoid a jack rabbit. “It’s fifty-three miles from Route 66 to the turn-off, then seven miles on the turn-off.”
“We left Highway 66 about thirty-nine, forty miles back,” Art replied. “We ought to be in sight of the turn-off before long.” He squinted out across bare, colorful New Mexico countryside. “Did you ever see so much wide-open, useless country? Cactus and coyotes — what’s it good for?”
“I like it,” Ross answered. “Hang on to your hat.” There was a flat, straight stretch ahead, miles along; Ross peeled off and made the little car dig . . . seventy . . . eighty . . . ninety . . . ninety-five. The needle quivered up toward three figures.”
“Hey, Ross?”
“Yeah?”
“This rig ain’t young any more. Why crack us up?”
“Sissy,” said Ross, but he eased up on the gas.
“Not at all,” Art protested. “If we kill ourselves trying to get to the moon, fine — we’re heroes. But if we bust our fool necks before we start, we’ll just look silly.”
“Okay, okay — is that the turn-off?”
A dirt road swung off to the right and took out over the desert. They followed it about a quarter of a mile, then pulled up at a steel gate barring the road. A strong fence, topped by barbed wire, stretched out in both directions. There was a sign on the gate:
DANGER
Unexploded Shells
Enter this area at your own risk. Disturb nothing – report all suspicious objects to the District Forester.
“This is it,” Ross stated. “Got the keys?” The area beyond was an abandoned training ground of the war, part of more than 8,000,000 acres in the United States which had been rendered useless until decontaminated by the hazardous efforts of army engineer specialists. This desert area was not worth the expense and risk of decontamination, but it was ideal for Cargraves; it assured plenty of room and no innocent bystanders — and it was rent free, loaned to the Association of Atomic Scientists, on Cargraves’ behalf.
Art chucked Ross some keys. Ross tried them, then said, “You’ve given me the wrong keys.”
“I don’t think so. Nope,” he continued, “those are the keys Doc sent.”
“What do we do?”
“Bust the lock, maybe.”
“Not this lock. Do we climb it?”
“With the rig under one arm? Be your age.”
A car crawled toward them, its speed lost in the vastness of the desert. It stopped near them and a man in a military Stetson stuck his head out. “Hey, there!”
Art muttered, “Hey, yourself,” then said, “Good morning.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“Get inside.”
“Don’t you see the sign? Wait a minute — either one of you named Jenkins?”
“He’s Ross Jenkins. I’m Art Mueller.”
“Pleased to know you. I’m the ranger hereabouts. Name o’ Buchanan. I’ll let you in, but I don’t rightly know as I should.”