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.
They marched in a hollow square of guards to the ship. Flash guns dazzled their eyes and television scanners followed their movements. It seemed impossible that this was the same lonely spot where, only hours before, they had worried about silent prowlers in the dark.
Cargraves had the boys climb in, then turned to Buchanan and Captain Taylor. "Ten minutes, gentlemen. Are you sure you can keep everybody clear? Once I get in the seat I can't see the ground near me."
"Don't worry, Captain Cargraves," Taylor assured him. "Ten minutes it is."
Buchanan stuck out his hand. "Good luck, Doctor. Bring me back some green cheese." ‘
A man came puffing up, dodged past a guard, and thrust a folded paper in Cargraves' hand.
"Here, what's this?" demanded Taylor. "Get back where you belong."
The man shrugged. "It's a court order."
"Eh? What sort?"
"Temporary injunction against flying this ship. Order to appear and show cause why a permanent injunction should not be issued to restrain him from willfully endangering the lives of minors."
Cargraves stared. It felt to him as if the world were collapsing around him. Ross and Art appeared at the door behind him. "Doc, what's up?"
"Hey, there! You boys-come down out of there," yelled the stranger, and then said to Captain Taylor, "I've got another paper directing me to take them in charge on behalf of the court."
"Get back in the ship," Cargraves ordered firmly, and opened the paper. It seemed in order. State of New Mexico and so forth. The stranger began to expostulate. Taylor took him by the arm.
"Take it easy," he said.
"Thanks," said Cargraves. "Mr. Buchanan, can I have a word with you? Captain, will you hang on to this character?"
"Now, I don't want any beef," protested the stranger. "I'm just carrying out my duty."
"I wonder," Cargraves said thoughtfully. He led Buchanan around the nose of the craft and showed him the paper.
"It seems to be in order," Buchanan admitted.
"Maybe. This says it's the order of a state court. This is federal territory, isn't it? As a matter of fact, Captain Taylor and his men are here only by your invitation and consent. Isn't that right?"
"Hmmm....es. That's so." Buchanan suddenly jammed the paper in his pocket. "I'll fix his clock!"
"Just a minute." Cargraves told him rapidly about the phony inspector, and the prowlers, matters which he had kept to himself, save for a letter to the Washington CAB office. "This guy may be a phony, or a stooge of a phony. Don't let him get away until you check with the court that supposedly issued this order."
"I won't!"
They went back, and Buchanan called Taylor aside. Cargraves took the stranger by the arm, not gently. The man protested. "How would you like a poke in the eye?" Cargraves inquired.
Cargraves was six inches taller, and solid. The man shut up. Taylor and Buchanan came back in a moment or two. The state policeman said, "You are due to take off in three minutes, Captain. I had better be sure the crowd is clear." He turned and called out, "Hey! Sergeant Swanson!"
"Yes, sir!'
"Take charge of this guy." It was the stranger, not Cargraves, whom he indicated.
Cargraves climbed in the ship. As he turned to close the door a cheer, ragged at first but growing to a solid roar, hit him. He clamped the door and locked it, then turned. "Places, men."
Art and Ross trotted to their hammocks, directly behind the pilots' seats. These hammocks were vertical, more like stretchers braced upright than garden hammocks. They snapped safety belts across their knees and chests.
Morrie was already in his chair, legs braced, safety belts buckled, head back against the shock pad. Cargraves slipped into the seat beside him, favoring his bad foot as he did so. "All set, Morrie." His eyes glanced over the instrument board, particularly noticing the temperature of the zinc and the telltale for position of the cadmium damping plates.
"All set, Captain. Give her the gun when you are ready."
He buckled himself in and glanced out the quartz glass screen ahead of him. The field was clear as far as he could see. Staring straight at him, round and beautiful, was their destination. Under his right hand, mounted on the arm rest, was a large knurled knob. He grasped it. "Art?"
"Ready sir."
"Ross?"
"Ready, Captain."
"Co-pilot?"
"Ready, Captain. Time, six-oh-one."
He twisted the knob slowly to the right. Back behind him, actuated by remote control, cadmium shields slowly withdrew from between lattices of graphite and thorium; uncountable millions of neutrons found it easier to seek atoms of thorium to destroy. The tortured nuclei, giving up the ghost, spent their energy in boiling the molten zinc.
The ship began to tremble.
With his left hand he cut in the nose rockets, balancing them against the increasing surge from the rear. He slapped in the belly jets; the ship reared. He let the nose jets die.