Cargraves started to speak. Art popped the tube in his mouth. “Don’t talk while I’m taking your temperature,” he warned, and glanced at his wrist watch.
“Why, what the-”
“Keep your mouth closed!”
Cargraves subsided, fuming. Nobody said anything until Art reached again for the thermometer. “What does it say ?” Morrie demanded.
“A tenth over a hundred.”
“Let me see that,” Cargraves demanded. Art held it away from him. The doctor stood up, absent-mindedly putting his weight on his injured foot. He then sat down quite suddenly. Art shook down the thermometer, cleaned it and put it away.
“It’s like this,” Morrie said firmly. “You aren’t boss; I’m boss.”
“Huh? What in the world has got into you, Morrie?”
Morrie said, “How about it, Art?”
Art looked embarrassed but said stubbornly, “That’s how it is, Uncle.”
“Ross?”
“I’m not sure of the pitch,” Ross said slowly, “but I see what they are driving at. I’m stringing along with Art and Morrie.”
Cargraves’ head was beginning to ache again. “I think you’ve all gone crazy. But it doesn’t make any difference; we’re washed up anyhow.”
“No,” Morrie said, “we’re not crazy, and it remains to be seen whether or not we’re washed up. The point is: you are on the sick list. That puts me in charge; you set it up that way yourself. You can’t give any orders or make any decisions for us until you are off the sick list.”
“But-” He stopped and then laughed, his first laugh in hours. “This is nuts. You’re hijacking me, with a technicality. You can’t put me on the sick list for a little over a degree of temperature.”
“You weren’t put on the sick list for that; you are being kept on the sick list for it. Art put you on the sick list while you were unconscious. You stay there until he takes you off — you made him medical officer.”
“Yes, but- Look here, Art -you put me on the sick list earlier? This isn’t just a gag you thought up to get around me?”
“No, Uncle,” Art assured him, “when I told Morrie that you said not to accept the thorium, he tried to check with you. But you were out like a light. We didn’t know what to do, until Morrie pointed out that I was medical officer and that I had to decide whether or not you were in shape to carry out your job. So-”
“But you don’t have. . . . Anyway, all this is beside the point. I sent the thorium back; there isn’t going to be any trip; there isn’t any medical officer; there isn’t any second-in-command. The organization is done with.” “But that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Uncle. We didn’t send the thorium back.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve signed for it,” Morrie explained, “as your agent.”
Cargraves rubbed his forehead. “You kids — you beat me! However, it doesn’t make any difference. I have made up my mind that the whole idea was a mistake. I am not going to the moon and that puts the kibosh on it. Wait a minute, Morrie! I’m not disputing that you are in charge, temporarily — but I can talk, can’t I?”
“Sure. You can talk. But nothing gets settled until your temperature is down and you’ve had a night’s sleep.”
“Okay. But you’ll see that things settle themselves. You have to have me to build the space drive. Right?”
“Mmmm . . . yes.”
“No maybes about it. You kids are learning a lot about atomics, fast. But you don’t know enough. I haven’t even told you, yet, how the drive is supposed to work.”
“We could get a license on your patent, even without your permission,” Ross put in. “We’re going to the moon.”
“Maybe you could — if you could get another nuclear physicist to throw in with you. But it wouldn’t be this enterprise. Listen to me, kids. Never mind any touch of fever I’ve got. I’m right in the head for the first time since I got banged on the head at your rocket test. And I want to explain some things. We’ve got to bust up, but I don’t want you sore at me.”