“No. Anything more out of the squawk box?”
“Not a peep.”
“Could it have been a coyote brushing against the wire?”
“How would a coyote get through the outer fence ?” Art wanted to know.
“Dig under it. There are coyotes in here. We’ve heard them.”
“You can’t tell how far a coyote is from you by its howl.”
“Listen to the old desert rat! Well, leave the light on, but go back to bed. I’ll be awake. I’ve got to be up in another hour in any case. Crawl in the sack.” Cargraves settled down to a pipe and some thought.
Cargraves was too busy on the trip to Albuquerque to worry about the preceding night. Ross’s style of herding his hot rod left little time to think about anything but the shortness of life and the difficulty of hanging on to his hat. But Ross poured them into the city with plenty of time for shopping.
Cargraves selected two Garand rifles, Army surplus stock at a cheap price, and added a police thirty-eight special, on a forty-five frame. His mouth watered at a fancy sporting rifle with telescopic sights, but money was getting short; a few more emergency purchases or any great delay in starting would bankrupt the firm.
He ordered a supply of army-style C-rations and K-rations for the trip. Ross remarked privately, while the clerk wrote up the order, “In most stories about space travel, they just eat pills of concentrated food. Do you think it will ever come to that?”
“Not with my money,” the physicist answered. “You guys can eat pills if you want to. I want food I can get my teeth in.”
“Check,” said Ross.
They stopped at a nursery where Cargraves ordered three dozen young rhubarb plants. He planned to use a balanced oxygen-carbon-dioxide air-refreshing system during the stay on the moon, if possible, and the plants were to supply the plant life half of the cycle. Enough liquid oxygen would be carted along for breathing throughout the round trip, but a “balanced aquarium” arrangement for renewing their air supply would enable them to stay on the moon as long as their food lasted.
The chemical fertilizers needed for hydroponic farming of the rhubarb were ordered also. This done, they grabbed a chocolate malt and a hamburger apiece and high-tailed it for the camp.
Morrie and Art swarmed out of the machine shop as they arrived. “Hi, Doc!
Hi, Ross! What’s the good word?”
Ross showed them the guns. Art was eager to try them and Cargraves okayed it. Morrie hung back and said, “By the way, Doc, the CAB inspector was here today.”
“The what?”
“The Civil Aeronautics inspector. He had a letter from you.”
“From me? What did it say?”
“Why, it requested them to send an inspector to go over the rebuilt parts of the rocket and approve it for flight. I told him it wasn’t ready.” “What else did you say? Did you tell him it was atomic-powered?”
“No, but he seemed to know it. He knew that we planned a space flight, too. What’s the pitch, Doc? I thought you were going to keep it quiet a while longer?”
“So did I,” Cargraves said bitterly. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing — so help me. I decided you ought to handle it, so I played stupid. I tipped Art and he did the same. Did we do wrong?” he went on anxiously. “I know he was CAB, but it seemed to me he ought to talk to you. Do you suppose we offended him?”
“I hope you gave him apoplexy,” Cargraves said savagely. “He was no CAB inspector, Morrie. He was a phony.”
“Huh? Why. . . . But he had your letter.”
“Faked. I’ll bet he’s been holed up somewhere outside the gate, waiting for me to be away. Did you leave him alone at any time?”
“No. Wait a minute — only once, for about five minutes. We were down at the ship and he sent me back for a flashlight. I’m sorry.” The boy looked miserable.
“Forget it. It was the natural, polite thing to do. You didn’t know he was phony. I wonder how he got through the gate? Did he come in a car?”