Cargraves’ face sobered. “Does staying up all night to pack suit you?”
“Does it! Just try us!”
“It’s a deal. Art, get in the ship and get going with the radio. Get the Associated Press station at Salt Lake. Get the United Press. Call up the radio news services. Tell them to get some television pick-ups out here. The lid is off now. Make them realize there is a story here.”
“On my way!” He scrambled up into the ship, then paused in the door. “Say — what if they don’t believe me?”
“Make them believe you. Tell them to call Doctor Larksbee at the commission for confirmation. Tell them that if they miss they’ll be scooped on the biggest story since the war. And say — call up Mr. Buchanan on the forestry frequency. He’s kept his mouth shut for us; he ought to be in on it.”
By midnight the job was practically complete and Cargraves insisted that they take turns lying down, two at a time, not to sleep, but just to keep from starting the trip completely tired out. The fuel tanks for the belly and nose jets were topped off and the specially installed reserve tanks were filled. The tons of zinc which served the main drive were already aboard as well as an equal weight of powdered reserve. The food was aboard; the carefully rationed water was aboard. (Water was no problem; the air-conditioner would scavenge the vapor of their own exhalations.) The liquid oxygen tanks were full. Cargraves himself had carried aboard the two Garands, excusing it to himself on the pretext that they might land in some wild spot on the return trip . . . that, despite the fact they had ripped the bindings from their few books in order to save space and weight.
He was tired. Only the carefully prepared lists enabled him to be sure that the ship was in all respects ready — or would be soon.
The boys were tired, confused, and excited. Morrie had worked the problem of their departure trajectory three times and then had gotten nerves over it, although it had checked to the last decimal each time. He was gnawed by fear that he had made some silly and fatal mistake and was not satisfied until Cargraves had gotten the same answer, starting with a clear board.
Mr. Buchanan, the Ranger, showed up about one o’clock, “Is this the Central New Mexico Insane Asylum?” he inquired pleasantly.
Cargraves admitted it. “I’ve wondered what you folks were up to,” the Ranger went on. “Of course I saw your ship, but your message surely surprised me. I hope you don’t mind me thinking you’re crazy; I wish you luck just the same.”
“Thanks.” Cargraves showed him the ship, and explained their plans. The moon was full and an hour past its greatest elevation. They planned to take off shortly after daybreak, as it was sinking in the west. This would lose them the earth’s spin, but, after the trial run, Cargraves did not care; he had power to throw away. Waiting twelve hours to save a difference of about 1600 miles per hour was more than his nerves could stand.
He had landed the rocket faced west; it would save jacking her around as well.
Buchanan looked the layout over and asked where the jets would splash. Cargraves showed him. Whereupon Buchanan asked, “Have you arranged for any guards?”
In truth, Cargraves had forgotten it. “Never mind,” said Buchanan, “I’ll call Captain Taylor and get some state police over.”
“Never mind calling; we’ll radio. Art!”
The press started showing up at four; by the time the state police arrived, Cargraves knew that he had been saved real grief. The place was crowded. Escorts were necessary from the outer gate to the corral to make sure that no one drove on the danger-studded mock-battle fields. Once in the corral it took the firm hand of the state police to keep them there — and to keep them from swarming over the ship.
At five they ate their last breakfast in the camp, with a guard at the door to give them some peace. Cargraves refused to be interviewed; he had prepared a typed hand-out and given copies to Buchanan to distribute. But the boys were buttonholed whenever his back was turned. Finally Captain Taylor assigned a bodyguard to each.