Cargraves looked at him with new interest. He had some comprehension of what the proposal would cost the boy in heartache and frustration. Mr. Jenkins looked surprised but answered quickly. "You may do that up till the time school opens."

"Suppose they aren't through by then? I wouldn't want to walk out on them."

"Very well. If necessary you can start school the second semester. That is my last concession." He turned to Doctor Cargraves. "I shall count on you for some tutoring." Then to his son, "But that is the end of the matter, Ross. When you are twenty-one you can risk your neck in a space ship if you like. Frankly, I expect that there will still be plenty of chance for you to attempt the first flight to the moon if you are determined to try it." He stood up.

"Albert."

"Eh? Yes, Martha?," he turned deferentially to his wife.

She laid her knitting in her lap and spoke emphatically. "Let him go, Albert!"

"Eh? What do you mean, my dear?"

"I mean, let the boy go to the moon, if he can. I know what I said, and you've put up a good argument for me. But I've listened and learned. Doctor Cargraves is right; I was wrong. We can't expect to keep them in the nest."

"Oh, I know what I said," she went on, "but a mother is bound to cry a little. Just the same, this country was not built by people who were afraid to go. Ross's great-great-grandfather crossed the mountains in a Conestoga wagon and homesteaded this place. He was nineteen, his bride was seventeen. It's a matter of family record that their parents opposed the move." She stirred suddenly and one of her knitting needles broke.

"I would hate to think that I had let the blood run thin." She got up and went quickly from the room.

Mr. Jenkins' shoulders sagged. "You have my permission, Ross," he said presently. "Doctor, I wish you good luck. And now, if you will excuse me.

He followed his wife.

"HOW MUCH FARTHER?" The noise of the stripped-down car combined with desert wind caused Art to shout. "Look at the map," Ross said, his hands busy at the wheel in trying to avoid a jack rabbit. "It's fifty-three miles from Route 66 to the turn-off, then seven miles on the turn-off."

"We left Highway 66 about thirty-nine, forty miles back," Art replied. "We oughtto be in sight of the turn-off before long." He squinted out across bare, colorful New Mexico countryside. "Did you ever see so much wide-open, useless country? Cactus and coyotes—what's it good for?"

"I like it," Ross answered. "Hang on to your hat." There was a flat, straight stretch ahead, miles along; Ross peeled off and made the little car dig... seventy... eighty... ninety... ninety-five. The needle quivered up toward three figures."

"Hey, Ross?"

"Yeah?"

"This rig ain't young any more. Why crack us up?"

"Sissy," said Ross, but he eased up on the gas.

"Not at all," Art protested. "If we kill ourselves trying to get to the moon, fine—we're heroes. But if we bust our fool necks before we start, we'll just look silly."

"Okay, okay—is that the turn-off?"

A dirt road swung off to the right and took out over the desert. They followed it about a quarter of a mile, then pulled up at a steel gate barring the road. A strong fence, topped by barbed wire, stretched out in both directions. There was a sign on the gate:

DANGER

Unexploded Shells

Enter this area at your own risk. Disturb nothing - report all suspicious objects to the District Forester.

"This is it," Ross stated. "Got the keys?" The area beyond was an abandoned training ground of the war, part of more than 8,000,000 acres in the United States which had been rendered useless until decontaminated by the hazardous efforts of army engineer specialists. This desert area was not worth the expense and risk of decontamination, but it was ideal for Cargraves; it assured plenty of room and no innocent bystanders—and it was rent free, loaned to the Association of Atomic Scientists, on Cargraves' behalf.

Art chucked Ross some keys. Ross tried them, then said, "You've given me the wrong keys."

"I don't think so. Nope," he continued, "those are the keys Doc sent."

"What do we do?"

"Bust the lock, maybe."

"Not this lock. Do we climb it?"

"With the rig under one arm? Be your age."

A car crawled toward them, its speed lost in the vastness of the desert. It stopped near them and a man in a military Stetson stuck his head out. "Hey, there!"

Art muttered, "Hey, yourself," then said, "Good morning."

"What are you trying to do?"

"Get inside."

"Don't you see the sign? Wait a minute—either one of you named Jenkins?"

"He's Ross Jenkins. I'm Art Mueller."

"Pleased to know you. I'm the ranger hereabouts. Name o' Buchanan. I'll let you in, but I don't rightly know as I should."

"Why not?" Ross's tone was edgy. He felt that they were being sized up as youngsters.

"Well... we had a little accident in there the other day. That's why the lock was changed."

"Accident?"

"Man got in somehow—no break in the fence. He tangled with a land mine about a quarter of a mile this side of your cabin."

"Did it... kill him?"

"Deader ‘n a door nail. I spotted it by the buzzards. See here—I'll let you in; I've got a copy of your permit. But don't go exploring. You stay in the marked area around the cabin, and stay on the road that follows the power line."

Ross nodded. "We'll be careful."

"Mind you are. What are you young fellows going to do in there, anyway? Raise jack-rabbits?"

"That's right. Giant jack-rabbits, eight feet tall."

"So? Well, keep ‘em inside the marked area, or you'll have jack-rabbit hamburger."

"We'll be careful," Ross repeated. "Any idea who the man was that had the accident? Or what he was doing here?"

"None, on both counts. The buzzards didn't leave enough to identify. Doesn't make sense. There was nothing to steal in there; it was before your stuff came."

"Oh, it's here!"

"Yep. You'll find the crates stacked out in the open. He wasn't a desert man," the Ranger went on. "You could tell by his shoes. Must ‘a' come by car, but there was no car around. Doesn't make sense." "No, it doesn't seem to," Ross agreed, "but he's dead, so that ends it." "Correct. Here are your keys. Oh, yes-" He put his hand back in his pocket. "Almost forgot. Telegram for you."

"For us? Oh, thanks!"

"Better put up a mail box out at the highway," Buchanan suggested. "This reached you by happenstance."

"We'll do that," Ross agreed absently, as he tore open the envelope.

"So long." Buchanan kicked his motor into life.

"So long, and thanks again."

"For Heaven's sake, what does it say?," Art demanded.

"Read it:"

PASSED FINAL TESTS TODAY. LEAVING SATURDAY. PLEASE PROVIDE BRASS BAND, DANCING GIRLS, AND TWO FATTED CALVES—ONE RARE, ONE MEDIUM. (signed) DOC AND MORRIE.

Ross grinned. "Imagine that! Old Morrie a rocket pilot! I'll bet his hat doesn't fit him now."

"I'll bet it doesn't. Darn! We all should have taken the course."

"Relax, relax. Don't be small about it—we'd have wasted half the summer." Ross dismissed the matter.

Art himself did not understand his own jealousy. Deep inside, it was jealousy of the fact that Morrie had been able to go to Spaatz Field in the company of Art's idolized uncle, rather than the purpose of the trip. All the boys had had dual-control airplane instruction; Morrie had gone on and gotten a private license. Under the rules- out of date, in Art's opinion -an airplane pilot could take a shortened course for rocket pilot. Doctor Cargraves held a slightly dusty aircraft license some fifteen years old. He had been planning to qualify for rocket operation; when he found that Morrie was eligible it was natural to include him.