one-third living space . . . heroic pioneers . . . insulation . . . housekeeping power . . . sunside-darkside heat pumps . . . unprecedented industrial effort . . . national sacrifice . . . national security …” Oddly, the most impressive thing about it to me was not the rocket itself but the wide swathe around it. For a full mile the land was cleared: no houses, no greenhouse decks, no food tanks, no sun traps. Partly security, partly radiation. The gleaming sand cut by irrigation pipes looked strange. There probably wasn’t another sight like it in North America. It troubled my eyes. Not for years had I focused them more than a few yards. “How strange,” Kathy said at my side. “Could we walk out there?” “Sorry, Dr. Nevin,” said one of the liaison men. “It’s a deadline. The tower guards are ordered to shoot anybody out there.” “Have contrary orders issued,” I said. “Dr. Nevin and I want to take a walk.” “Of course, Mr. Courtenay,” the man said, very worried. “I’ll do my best, but it’ll take a little time. I’ll have to clear it with C.I.C., Naval Intelligence, C.I.A., F.B.I., A.E.C. Security and Intelligence-” I looked at Kathy, and she shrugged with helpless amusement. “Never mind,” I said. “Thank God!” breathed my liaison man. “Excuse me, Mr. Courtenay. It’s never been done before so there aren’t any channels to do it through. You know what that means.” “I do indeed,” I said, from the heart. “Tell me, has all the security paid off?” “It seems so, Mr. Courtenay. There’s been no sabotage or espionage, foreign or Consie, that we know of.” He rapped a knuckle of his right hand solemnly on a handsome oak engagement ring he wore on the third finger of his left hand. I made a mental note to have his expense account checked up on. A man on his salary had no business wearing that kind of jewelry. “The Consies interested?” I asked. “Who knows? C.I.C., C.I.A. and A.E.C. S.&I. say yes. Naval Intelligence, F.B.I, and S.S. say no. Would you like to meet Commander MacDonald? He’s the O.N.I. chief here. A specialist in Consies.” “Like to meet a Consie specialist, Kathy?” I asked.
“If we have time,” she said. “I’ll have them hold the jet for you if necessary,” the liaison man said eagerly, trying hard to undo his fiasco on the tower guards. He led us through the tangle of construction shacks and warehouses to the administration building and past seven security checkpoints to the office of the commander. MacDonald was one of those career officers who make you feel good about being an American citizen-quiet, competent, strong. I could see from his insignia and shoulder flashes that he was a Contract Specialist, Intelligence, on his third five-year option from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. He was a regular; he wore the class ring of the Pinkerton Graduate School of Detection and Military Intelligence, Inc. It’s pine with an open eye carved on it; no flashy inlay work. But it’s like a brand name. It tells you that you’re dealing with quality. “You want to hear about Consies?” he asked quietly. “I’m your man. I’ve devoted my life to running them down.” “A personal grudge, Commander?” I asked, thinking I’d hear something melodramatic. “No. Old-fashioned pride of workmanship if anything. I like the thrill of the chase, too, but there isn’t much chasing. You get Consies by laying traps. Did you hear about the Topeka bombing? Of-course-I-shouldn’t-knock-the-competition but those guards should have known it was a setup for a Consie demonstration.” “Why, exactly, Commander?” Kathy asked. He smiled wisely. “Feel,” he said. “The kind of thing it’s hard to put over in words. The Consies don’t like hydraulic mining-ever. Give them a chance to parade their dislike and they’ll take it if they can.” “But why don’t they like hydraulic mining?” she persisted. “We’ve got to have coal and iron, don’t we?” “Now,” he said with pretended, humorous weariness, “you’re asking me to probe the mind of a Consie. I’ve had them in the wrecking room for up to six hours at a stretch and never yet have they talked sense. If I caught the Topeka Consie, say, he’d talk willingly-but it would be gibberish. He’d tell me the hydraulic miner was destroying topsoil. I’d say yes, and what about it. He’d say, well can’t you see? I’d say, see what? He’d say, the topsoil can never be replaced. I’d say, yes it can if it had to be and anyway tank farming’s better. He’d say something like tank farming doesn’t pro-