"Well, not quite, but that's a factor. What I meant-"

"I've got some E-bonds," Ross announced, turning his bandaged head.

"That's not the point," Cargraves answered, with great gentleness. "I appreciate the offer; don't think I don't. And don't think I want to give up. But I've had my eyes opened. It was foolish, foolish from the start, sheer folly. But I let my desires outweigh my judgment. I had no business getting you kids into this. Your father was right, Ross. Now I've got to do what I can to make amends."

Ross shook his head. Morrie glanced at Art and said, "How about it, medical officer?"

Art looked embarrassed, started to speak, and changed his mind. Instead he went to the medicine cabinet, and took out a fever thermometer. He came back to Cargraves. "Open your mouth, Uncle."

Cargraves started to speak. Art popped the tube in his mouth. "Don't talk while I'm taking your temperature," he warned, and glanced at his wrist watch.

"Why, what the-"

"Keep your mouth closed!"

Cargraves subsided, fuming. Nobody said anything until Art reached again for the thermometer. "What does it say?" Morrie demanded.

"A tenth over a hundred."

"Let me see that," Cargraves demanded. Art held it away from him. The doctor stood up, absent-mindedly putting his weight on his injured foot. He then sat down quite suddenly. Art shook down the thermometer, cleaned it and put it away.

"It's like this," Morrie said firmly. "You aren't boss; I'm boss."

"Huh? What in the world has got into you, Morrie?"

Morrie said, "How about it, Art?"

Art looked embarrassed but said stubbornly, "That's how it is, Uncle."

"Ross?"

"I'm not sure of the pitch," Ross said slowly, "but I see what they are driving at. I'm stringing along with Art and Morrie."

Cargraves' head was beginning to ache again. "I think you've all gone crazy. But it doesn't make any difference; we're washed up anyhow."

"No," Morrie said, "we're not crazy, and it remains to be seen whether or not we're washed up. The point is: you are on the sick list. That puts me in charge; you set it up that way yourself. You can't give any orders or make any decisions for us until you are off the sick list."

"But-" He stopped and then laughed, his first laugh in hours. "This is nuts. You're hijacking me, with a technicality. You can't put me on the sick list for a little over a degree of temperature."

"You weren't put on the sick list for that; you are being kept on the sick list for it. Art put you on the sick list while you were unconscious. You stay there until he takes you off—you made him medical officer."

"Yes, but- Look here, Art -you put me on the sick list earlier? This isn't just a gag you thought up to get around me?"

"No, Uncle," Art assured him, "when I told Morrie that you said not to accept the thorium, he tried to check with you. But you were out like a light. We didn't know what to do, until Morrie pointed out that I was medical officer and that I had to decide whether or not you were in shape to carry out your job. So-"

"But you don't have... . Anyway, all this is beside the point. I sent the thorium back; there isn't going to be any trip; there isn't any medical officer; there isn't any second-in-command. The organization is done with." "But that's what I've been trying to tell you, Uncle. We didn't send the thorium back."

"Huh?"

"I've signed for it," Morrie explained, "as your agent."

Cargraves rubbed his forehead. "You kids—you beat me! However, it doesn't make any difference. I have made up my mind that the whole idea was a mistake. I am not going to the moon and that puts the kibosh on it. Wait a minute, Morrie! I'm not disputing that you are in charge, temporarily—but I can talk, can't I?"

"Sure. You can talk. But nothing gets settled until your temperature is down and you've had a night's sleep."

"Okay. But you'll see that things settle themselves. You have to have me to build the space drive. Right?"

"Mmmm... yes."

"No maybes about it. You kids are learning a lot about atomics, fast. But you don't know enough. I haven't even told you, yet, how the drive is supposed to work."

"We could get a license on your patent, even without your permission," Ross put in. "We're going to the moon."

"Maybe you could—if you could get another nuclear physicist to throw in with you. But it wouldn't be this enterprise. Listen to me, kids. Never mind any touch of fever I've got. I'm right in the head for the first time since I got banged on the head at your rocket test. And I want to explain some things. We've got to bust up, but I don't want you sore at me."

"What do you mean: ‘since you got banged in the head'?"

Cargraves spoke very soberly. "I knew at that time, after we looked over the grounds, that that ‘accident' was no accident. Somebody put a slug on me, probably with a blackjack. I couldn't see why then and I still don't see why. I should have seen the light when we started having prowlers. But I couldn't believe that it was really serious. Yesterday I knew it was. Nobody impersonates a federal inspector unless he's playing for high stakes and willing to do almost anything. It had me worried sick. But I still didn't see why anybody would want anything we've got and I certainly didn't think they would try to kill us."

"You think they meant to kill us?" asked Ross.

"Obviously. The phony inspector booby-trapped us. He planted some sort of a bomb."

"Maybe he meant to wreck the ship rather than to kill us."

"What for?"

"Well," said Art, "maybe they're after the senior prizes."

"Wrecking our ship won't win him any prize money."

"No, but it could keep us from beating him."

"Maybe. It's far-fetched but it's as good an answer as any. But the reason doesn't matter. Somebody is out to get us and he's willing to go to any lengths. This desert is a lonely place. If I could afford a squadron of guards around the place we might bull it through. But I can't. And I can't let you kids get shot or bombed. It's not fair to you, nor to your parents."

Art looked stubborn and unhappy.

Morrie's face was an impassive mask. Finally he said, "If that's all you've got to say, Doc, I suggest we eat and adjourn until tomorrow."

"All right."

"Not just yet." Ross had stood up. He groped for the back of his chair and tried to orient himself. "Where are you, Doc?"

"I'm here—to your left."

"All right. Now I've got some things to say. I'm going to the moon. I'm going to the moon, somehow, whether you want to go or not. I'm going to the moon even if I never get back the use of my eyes. I'm going to the moon even if Morrie or Art has to lead me around. You can do as you please."

"But I'm surprised at you, Doc," he went on. "You're afraid to take the responsibility for us, aren't you? That's the size of it?"

"Yes, Ross, that's the size of it."

"Yet you were willing to take the responsibility of leading us on a trip to the moon. That's more dangerous than anything that could happen here, isn't it? Isn't it?"

Cargraves bit his lip. "It's different."

"I'll tell you how it's different. If we get killed trying to make the jump, Einety-nine chances out of a hundred we all get killed together. You don't have to go back and explain anything to our parents. That's how it's different!"

"Now, Ross!"

"Don't ‘Now, Ross' me. Want the deuce, Doc?" he went on bitterly. "Suppose it had happened on the moon; would you be twittering around, your morale all shot? Doc, I'm surprised at you. If you are going to have an attack of nerves every time the going gets a little tough, I vote for Morrie for permanent captain."

"That's about enough, Ross," Morrie put in quietly.

"Okay. I was through, anyway." Ross sat down.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Morrie broke it by saying, "Art, let's you and me throw together some food. Study hour will be late as it is." Cargraves looked surjrised. Morrie saw his expression and continued, "Sure. Why not? Art and I can take turns reading aloud."