“That’s not going to happen to space travel! I’m not going to let it happen.
Space ships are too big and too expensive; if they get a reputation for being unsafe as well, we might as well have stayed in bed. I run things.”
He stopped. Dixon waited and then said, “I said I believed in you, Delos. How much money do you need?”
“Eh? On what terms?”
“Your note.”
“My note? Did you say my note?”
“I’d want security, of course.”
Harriman swore. “I knew there was a hitch in it. Dan, you know everything I’ve got is tied up in this venture.”
“You have insurance. You have quite a lot of insurance, I know.”
“Yes, but that’s all made out to my wife.”
“I seem to have heard you say something about that sort of thing to Jack Entenza,” Dixon said. “Come, now—if I know your tax-happy sort, you have at least one irrevocable trust, or paid-up annuities, or something, to keep Mrs. Harriman out of the poor house.”
Harriman thought fiercely about it. “When’s the call date on this note?”
“In the sweet bye and bye. I want a no-bankruptcy clause, of course.”
“Why? Such a clause has no legal validity.”
“It would be valid with you, wouldn’t it?”
“Mmm . . . yes. Yes, it would.”
“Then get out your policies and see how big a note you can write.” Harriman looked at him, turned abruptly and went to his safe. He came back with quite a stack of long, stiff folders. They added them up together; it was an amazingly large sum—for those days. Dixon then consulted a memorandum taken from his pocket and said, “One seems to be missing— a rather large one. A North Atlantic Mutual policy, I think.”
Harriman glared at him. “Am I going to have to fire every confidential clerk in my force?”
“No,” Dixon said mildly, “I don’t get my information from your staff. Harriman went back to the safe, got the policy and added it to the pile. Strong spoke up, “Do you want mine, Mr. Dixon?”
“No,” answered Dixon, “that won’t be necessary.” He started stuffing the policies in his pocket. “I’ll keep these, Delos, and attend to keeping up the premiums. I’ll bill you of course. You can send the note and the changeof-beneficiary forms to my office. Here’s your draft.” He took out another slip of paper; it was the draft—already made out in the amount of the policies.
Harriman looked at it. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “I wonder who’s kidding who?” He tossed the draft over to Strong. “O.K., George, take care of it. I’m off to Paris, boys. Wish me luck.” He strode out as jauntily as a fox terrier.
Strong looked from the closed door to Dixon, then at the note. “I ought to tear this thing up!”
“Don’t do it,” advised Dixon. “You see, I really do believe in him.” He added, “Ever read Carl Sandburg, George?”
“I’m not much of a reader.”
“Try him some time. He tells a story about a man who started a rumor that they had struck oil in hell. Pretty soon everybody has left for hell, to get in on the boom. The man who started the rumor watches them all go, then scratches his head and says to himself that there just might be something in it, after all. So he left for hell, too.”
Strong waited, finally said, “I don’t get the point.”
“The point is that I just want to be ready to protect myself if necessary, George—and so should you. Delos might begin believing his own rumors. Diamonds! Come, Jack.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ENSUING MONTHS were as busy as the period before the flight of the Pioneer (now honorably retired to the Smithsonian Institution). One engineering staff and great gangs of men were working on the catapult, two more staffs were busy with two new ships; the Mayflower, and the Colonial; a third ship was on the drafting tables. Ferguson was chief engineer for all of this; Coster, still buffered by Jock Berkeley, was engineering consultant, working where and as he chose. Colorado Springs was a boom town; the Denver-Trinidad roadcity settlements spread out at the Springs until they surrounded Peterson Field.