"No," Cargraves answered, "I wouldn't want to risk jimmying up the equipment. It's more important to have it just right for the moon landing than it is to use it for prowlers."

"Oh, I won't hurt it!"

"I still think," insisted Morrie, "that getting a shot at him is the best medicine."

"So much the better," Art pointed out. "I'll spot him in the scope. You wear phones with about a thousand feet of cord and I'll coach you right up to him, in the dark. Then you got ‘im."

"Sounds good," Morrie agreed.

"Take it easy," Cargraves cautioned. "You fellows may think this is the Wild West but you will find that a judge will take a very sour attitude if you plug a man engaged in simple trespassing. You boys've read too many comic books."

"I never touch the things," Art denied fiercely. "Anyhow. Not often," he amended.

"If we can't shoot, then why did you buy the guns?" Ross wanted to know.

"Fair enough. You can shoot—but you have to be certain it's self-defense; I'll take those guns back to the shop before I'll have a bunch of wild men running around with blood in their eyes and an itch in their trigger fingers. The other use for the guns is to throw a scare into any more prowlers. You can shoot, but shoot where he isn't—unless he shoots first."

"Okay."

"Suits."

"I hope he shoots first!"

"Any other ideas?"

"Just one," Art answered. "Suppose our pal cut our power line. We've got everything on it—light, radio, even the squawk box. He could cut the line after we went to sleep and loot the whole place without us knowing it."

Cargraves nodded. "I should have thought of that." He considered it. "You and I will string a temporary line right now from the ship's batteries to your squawk box. Tomorrow we'll hook up an emergency lighting circuit." He stood up. "Come on, Art. And you guys get busy. Study hour."

"Study hour?" Ross protested. "Tonight? We can't keep our minds on books—not tonight."

"You can make a stab at it," the doctor said firmly. "Guys have been known to write books while waiting to be hanged."

The night passed quietly. Ross and Doc were down at the ship early the next morning, leaving Art and Morrie to work out an emergency lighting circuit from the battery of the car. Doc planned to have everything ready for the thorium when it arrived. He and Ross climbed into the rocket and got cheerfully to work. Cargraves started laying out tools, while Ross, whistling merrily off key, squeezed himself around the edge of the shield. Cargraves looked up just in time to see a bright, bright flash, then to be hit in the face by a thunderous pressure which threw him back against the side of the ship.

ART WAS SHAKING HIS SHOULDER. "Doc!" he was pleading. "Doc! Wake up-are you hurt bad?"

"Ross..." Cargraves said vaguely. "It's not Ross; it's Art."

"But Ross—how's Ross? Did it, did it kill him?"

"I don't know. Morrie's with him."

"Go find out."

"But you're-"

"Go find out, I said!" Whereupon he passed out again.

When he came to a second time, Art was bending over him. "Uncle," he said, "the thorium has come. What do we do?"

Thorium. Thorium? His head ached, the word seemed to have no meaning.

"Uh, I'll be out in a... what about Ross? Is he dead?"

"No, he's not dead."

"How bad is he hurt?"

"It seems to be his eyes, mostly. He isn't cut up any, but he can't see. What'll I tell them about the thorium, Uncle?"

"Oh, hang the thorium! Tell them to take it back."

"What?"

He tried to get up, but he was too dizzy, too weak. He let his head fall back and tried to collect his spinning thoughts.

"Don't be a dope, Art," he muttered peevishly. "We don't need thorium. The trip is off, the whole thing was a mistake. Send it back—it's poison." His eyes were swimming; he closed them. "Ross..." he said.

He was again brought back to awareness by the touch of hands on his body. Morrie and Art were gently but firmly going over him. "Take it easy, Doc," Morrie warned him.

"How's Ross?" "Well..." Morrie wrinkled his brow. "Ross seems all right, except for his eyes. He says he's all right."

"But he's blind?"

"Well, he can't see."

"We've got to get him to a hospital." Cargraves sat up and tried to stand up. "Ow!" He sat down suddenly.

"It's his foot," said Art.

"Let's have a look at it. Hold still, Doc." They took his left shoe off gently and peeled back the sock. Morrie felt it over. "What do you think, Art?"

Art examined it. "It's either a sprain or a break. We'll have to have an X-ray."

"Where's Ross?" Cargraves persisted. "We've got to get him to a hospital."

"Sure, sure," Morrie agreed. "We've got to get you to one, too. We moved Ross up to the cabin."

"I want to see him."

"Comin' up! Have a seet, while I get the car."

With Art's help Cargraves managed to get up on his good foot and hobble to the door. Getting down from the ship's door was painful, but he made it, and fell thankfully into the seat of the car.

"Who's there?" Ross called out, as they came in with Cargraves leaning on the two boys.

"All of us," Art told him.

Cargraves saw that Ross was lying in his bunk with his eyes covered with a handkerchief. Cargraves hobbled over to him. "How is it, kid?" he said huskily.

"Oh, it's you, Doc. I'll get by. It'll take more than that to do me in. How are you?"

"I'm all right. How about your eyes?"

"Well," Ross admitted, "to tell the truth, they don't work too well. All I see is purple and green lights." He kept his voice steady, almost cheerful, but the pulse in his neck was throbbing visibly. Cargraves started to remove the bandage. Morrie stopped him.

"Let the bandage alone, Doc," he said firmly. "There's nothing to see. Wait till we get him to a hospital."

"But... Okay, okay. Let's get on with it."

"We were just waiting for you. Art will drive you."

"What are you going to do?"

"I," said Morrie, "am going to climb up on the roof of this shack with a load of sandwiches and a gun. I'll still be there when you get back."

"But-" Cargraves shrugged and let the matter pass.

Morrie scrambled down when they got back and helped Cargraves hobble into the cabin. Ross was led in by Art; his eyes were bandaged professionally and a pair of dark glasses stuck out of his shirt pocket. "What's the score?" Morrie demanded of all of them, but his eyes were fastened on Ross.

"It's too early to tell," Cargraves said heavily, as he eased into a chair.

"No apparent damage, but the optic nerve seems paralyzed."

Morrie clucked and said nothing. Ross groped at a chair and sat down.

"Relax," he advised Morrie. "I'll be all right. The flash produced a shock in the eyes. The doctor told me all about it. Sometimes a case like this goes on for three months or so, then it's all right."

Cargraves bit his lip. The doctor had told him more than he had told Ross; sometimes it was not all right; sometimes it was permanent.

"How about you, Doc?"

"Sprain, and a wrenched back. They strapped me up."

"Nothing else?"

"No. Anti-tetanus shots for both of us, but that was just to be on the safe side."

"Well," Morrie announced cheerfully, "it looks to me as if the firm would be back in production in short order."

"No," Cargraves denied. "No, it won't be. I've been trying to tell these goons something ever since we left the hospital, but they wouldn't listen. We're through. The firm is busted."

None of the boys said anything. He went on, raising his voice. "There won't be any trip to the moon. Can't you see that?"

Morrie looked at him impassively. "You said, ‘The firm is busted.' You mean you're out of money?"