"Who, me? Why, I've got everything lined up, I guess. Both radars are right on the beam. I've got a couple wrinkles I'd like to try with the FM circuit."

"Is it all right the way it is?"

"Good enough, I guess."

"Then don't monkey with the radios. I can keep you busy."

"Oh, sure."

"How about the radar screen Art was going to rig?" Morrie inquired.

"Eh? Oh, you mean the one for our friend the prowler. Hm... .," Cargraves studied the matter. "Ross thinks and I agree that the best way to beat the prowler is to get out of here as fast as we can. I don't want that radar out of the ship. It would waste time and always with the chance of busting a piece of equipment we can't afford to replace and can't get along without."

Morrie nodded. "Suits. I still think that a man with a gun in his hands is worth more than a gadget anyhow. See here—there are four of us. That's two hours a' night. Let's stand guard."

Cargraves agreed to this. Various plans were offered to supplement the human guard and the charged fence, but all were voted down as too time-consuming, too expensive or impractical. It was decided to let the matter stand, except that lights would be left burning at night, including a string to be rigged around the ship. All of these lines were to be wired to cut over automatically to the ship's batteries.

Cargraves sat down to lunch on Wednesday of the following week with a feeling of satisfaction. The thorium power pile was in place, behind the repaired shield. This in itself was good; he disliked the finicky, ever-dangerous work of handling the radioactive element, even though he used body shields and fished at it with tongs.

But the pile was built; the air lock had been welded in place and tested for air-tightness; almost all the supplies were aboard. Acceleration hammocks had been built for Art and Ross (Cargraves and Morrie would ride out the surges of power in the two pilot seats). The power pile had been operated at a low level; all was well, he felt, and the lights on the board were green.

The phony inspector had not showed up again, nor were the night watches disturbed. Best of all, Ross's eyesight had continued to improve; the eye specialist had pronounced him a cure on Monday, subject to wearing dark glasses for a couple of weeks.

Cargraves' sprain still made him limp, but he had discarded his stick. Nothing bothered him. He tackled Aggregate a la Galileo (hash to ordinary mortals) with enthusiasm, while thinking about a paper he would write for the Physical Review. Some Verified Experimental Factors in Space Flight seemed like a good title—by Doctor Donald Morris Cargraves, B.S., Sc.D., LL.D., Nobel Prize, Nat. Acad., Fr. Acad., etc. The honors were not yet his—he was merely trying them on for size.

The car ground to a stop outside and Art came in with the mail. "Santa Claus is here!" he greeted them. "One from your folks, Ross, and one from that synthetic blonde you're sweet on."

"I'm not sweet on her and she's a natural blonde," Ross answered emphatically.

"Have it your own way—you'll find out. Three for you, Morrie—all business. The rest are yours, Doc," he finished, holding back the one from his mother. "Hash again," he added.

"It's to soften you up for what you're going to eat on the moon," said the cook. "Say, Doc-"

"Yes, Morrie?"

"The canned rations are at the express office in town, it says here. I'll pick ‘em up this afternoon. The other two are bills. That finishes my check-off list."

"Good," he answered absently, as he tore open a letter. "You can help Ross and me on the test stand. That's the only big job left." He unfolded the letter and read it.

Then he reread it. Presently Ross noticed that he had stopped eating and said, "What's the matter, Doc?"

"Well, nothing much, but it's awkward. The Denver outfit can't supply the dynamometers for the test stand run." He tossed the letter to Ross.

"How bad off does that leave us?" asked Morrie.

"I don't know, yet. I'll go with you into town. Let's make it right after lunch; I have to call the East Coast and I don't want to get boxed in by the time difference."

"Can do."

Ross handed the letter back. "Aren't there plenty of other places to buy them?"

"Hardly ‘plenty.' Half-a-million-pound dynamometers aren't stock items. We'll try Baldwin Locomotives."

"Why don't we make them?" asked Art. "We made our own for the Starstruck series."'

Cargraves shook his head. "High as my opinion is of you lugs as good, all-around jack-leg mechanics and pretzel benders, some jobs require special equipment. But speaking of the Starstruck series," he went on, intentionally changing the subject, "do you guys realize we've never named the ship? How does Starstruck VI appeal to you?"

Art liked it. Morrie objected that it should be Moonstruck. But Ross had another idea. "Starstruck was a good enough name for our model rockets, but we want something with a little more—oh, I don't know; dignity, I guess-for the moon ship."

"The Pioneer?"

"Corny."

"The Thor—for the way she's powered."

"Good, but not enough."

"Let's call it Einstein."

"I see why you want to name it for Doctor Einstein," Cargraves put in, "but maybe I've got another name that will symbolize the same thing to you. How about the Galileo?"

There was no dissension; the members of the Galileo Club again were unanimous. The man who had first seen and described the mountains of the moon, the man whose very name had come to stand for steadfast insistence on scientific freedom and the freely inquiring mind—his name was music to them.

Cargraves wondered whether or not their own names would be remembered after more than three centuries. With luck, with lots of luck—Columbus had not been forgotten. If the luck ran out, well, a rocket crash was a fast clean death.

The luck appeared to be running out, and with nothing as gallant and spectacular as a doomed and flaming rocket. Cargraves sweated in a phone booth until after five o'clock, East Coast time, and then another hour until it was past five in Chicago as well before he admitted that dynamometers of the size he needed were not to be had on short notice.

He blamed himself for having slipped up, while neglecting to credit himself with having planned to obtain the instruments from the Denver firm for reasons of economy; he had expected to get them second-hand. But blaming himself comforted him.

Morrie noted his long face as he climbed into the heavily loaded little car. "No soap, eh?"

"No soap. Let's get back to camp."

They sped along the desert road in worried silence for several minutes. Finally Morrie spoke up. "How about this, Doc? Make a captive run on the ground with the same yoke and frame you planned to use, but without dynamometers."

"What good would that do? I have to know what the thrust is."

"I'm getthig to that. We put a man inside. He watches the accelerometer—the pendulum accelerometer of course; not the distance-integrating one. It reads in g's. Figure the number of gravities against the gross weight of the ship at the time and you come out with your thrust in pounds."

Cargraves hesitated. The boy's mistake was so obvious and yet so easy to make that he wished to point it out without hurting his pride. "It's a clever plan, except that I would want to use remote control—there's always the chance that a new type of atomic-fission power plant will blow up. But that's not the hitch; if the ship is anchored to the ground, it won't be accelerating no matter how much thrust is developed."

"Oh!" said Morrie. "Hmm. I sure laid an egg on that one, Doc."

"Natural mistake."

After another five miles Morrie spoke again. "I've got it, Doc. The Galileo has to be free to move to show thrust on the accelerometer. Right? Okay, I'll test-fly it. Hold it, hold it," he went on quickly, "I know exactly what you are going to say: you won't let any one take a risk if you can help it. The ship might blow up, or it might crash. Okay, so it might. But it's my job. I'm not essential to the trip; you are. You have to have Ross as flight engineer; you have to have Art for the radar and radio; you don't have to have a second pilot. I'm elected."