"Well, small. Small, if you're referring to the chances of the late John L. Sullivan appearing before us in a cloud of glory. But if you mean of our finding Jocelyn, or Jocelyn finding us—the chances are real small."
"That's about how I figured it," said his companion wearily. "Why even bother?"
"Earthman's burden, maybe. Anyway, the program is: first we manufacture some 99, then we make a protolens, then we build a ship around them.... How long did they say we had before this planet starts frying like henfruit on a griddle?"
"About a week. Is that plenty?"
"Well," said Gaynor soberly, "considering that it took us upwards of two years to finish the Prototype, when we had all the resources we needed, and enough radioactive substances to fill a pickle barrel, it isn't exactly too much time. Of course, we have the experience now."
"Right again," said Clair sullenly. "Doesn't it irritate you—this business of never being wrong?"
"Sorry, bud—it's the way I'm built. Like clockwork—you give me the data and I click out the answers, right every time.... Well, we seem to be missing just about everything. It will be sort of hard getting away from here without any sort of a ship. But does that stop the Rover Boys of space?"
"Yes," said Clair flatly. "Let's stop kidding ourselves. I'd sooner drink slow poison than have one of their psychotaxidermists put this nice brain of mine into one of those asbestos lizards. And I know like I know my own name that you would, too."
There was no answer to that. But Gaynor was spared the necessity of inventing one when the doorbell rang—just like on Earth. Eager for any distraction, he answered it.
Gooper stepped in, a rare smile on his face. "Greetings, friends," he said cheerily.
"Yeah?" growled Clair. "What are you happy about?"
"It's a fine day outside," said the Gaylen, "the air is bracing, all machinery's working beautifully—and we've worked out a solution to your particular problem."
"That so?" asked Gaynor. "What is it?"
"Wait a couple days and you'll see," said the Gaylen confidently. "We boys down at the Heavy Industries Trust want to surprise you."
"You might yell 'boo!' at us when we're not looking," said Gaynor sourly. "Nothing else could surprise us about you."
"I agree with my collaborator," confirmed Clair. "Go away, Gooper. And stay away until we send for you, please. We have a lot of heavy thinking to do."
"Oh, all right—if you want it that way," snapped Gooper, petulantly. He huffed out of the door, leaving the two Earthmen slumped despondently over a bench, thinking with such intensity that you could smell their short hairs frizzled with the heat.
Two days later they were still sitting, though they had stopped the flow of thought a few times for food, sleep, and the other necessities of the body.
"Art," said Clair.
"Yes?"
"Do you suppose that Gooper had the McCoy when he said that they'd solved our problem?"
"I doubt it. No good can come from a Gaylen—take that for an axiom."
"I know they've got bad habits. But where would we be if it weren't for them?"
"Are you glad you're here?" cried Gaynor savagely.
"Not very. But its better than lying poisoned in the Prototype. And their projector—the one they used to drag us in is a marvelous gadget—even you should admit that."
"Why?" asked Gaynor glumly.
"Because," said Clair complacently, "I just figured out an answer to our difficulties, and the projector forms a large part of it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah! Because all we have to do is to coax the Gaylens into letting us have some sort of a shell—a boiler or a water-tank will do, if it's gas-tight—and then fix it up for living purposes." Clair sat back triumphantly.
"And what good does that do us? We can't stay in it forever, if that's what you're driving at—even if we could get one that was a good enough insulator to keep out the heat."
"Far from it. I examined their traction-projectors, and learned how to work them. They're a good deal like our own artificial-gravity units, which, you may remember, are now floating around in the Prototype somewhere. Only these things are powered by electricity, and they don't require a great deal of that, either. I've been trying to dope out just how they work, but I haven't got very far, and Gooper keeps referring me to the experts in the field whenever I ask him. But I can handle them all right, so if we stick a quartz window in the shell, and install the projector, and seal it up nice and tidy—"
"We can take off !" yelled Gaynor. "Art, you have it!" He whooped with joy. "We can tack out into space— "
"Head for the nearest star— "
"Raise our own garden truck with hydroponics— "
"Maybe locate some radium— "
"Live long and useful lives until we do— "
"And if not, what the hell!" finished Gaynor.
"So we'll call up Gooper and have it done." Clair began punching the combination of wall-studs that customarily sent their host and name-sake dashing into the room, but for once he actually preceded the summons.
"Something I want to show you," he said as he entered.
"Lead on," said Clair exuberantly, and all together they mounted the moving ramp. Clair began to describe his brainchild.
But halfway through Gooper stamped his foot and uttered an impatient exclamation.
"What's the matter?" asked Clair, surprised. "Won't it work?"
"We wanted to surprise you," said Gooper mournfully. "Remember?"
"Distinctly. But where is this surprise?"
"Here," said Copper as they dismounted, leading the way into a rodm of colossal proportions. And there on the floor, looking small amid its surroundings, but bulking very large beside the hundred-odd men who were tinkering with it, was the very image of Clair's machine—a mammoth ex-steam boiler, fitted with quartz ports and a gastight door, containing full living quarters, supplies, and a gravity projector.
Clair and Gaynor staggered back in mock astonishment. "Pavlik," said Clair gravely. "I like their system of production here. No sooner does one dream up a ship than its on the ways and ready to be launched."
"Let's look the blighter over," said Gaynor. "What shall we call it?"
"Archetype," said Clair instantly. "The primitive progenitor of all space ships. Archie for short."
"Not Archie," said Gaynor, making a mouth of distaste. "No dignity there. How about calling it the Ark?"
"That'll do. Archetype she is, now and forever more." They entered the capacious port and looked cautiously around.
"Big, isn't it?" Gaynor commented superfluously.
"Very big. Hydroponics tanks and everything. Stores and spare parts too."
"We left little to chance," said Gooper proudly. "This may be the last job of engineering of any complexity that our people will do for some time, so we made it good and impressive, both. I don't see how, outside of diving into the sun, you can manage to get hurt in this thing."
"What are those?" suddenly asked Clair, pointing to a brace of what looked like diving suits.
"In case you want to explore our unaffected planet," said Gooper.
"Are there any?" cried Gaynor, his eyes popping.
"Only one. It will be well out of the danger zone. You can even settle the Ark there if you like, instead of living in space. Its gravity is a bit high, but not too much so."
"Look, Gooper," broke in Clair. "I just had a simply marvelous idea."
"What is it?" asked the Gaylen with suspicious formality.
"You have a bit of time left. If you work hard, enough time to fabricate more of these ships, to transport a lot of your people to that planet. Why not do it? You probably couldn't get all of them there in time, but a good nucleus, say, for development."