"We have to do something." A man's voice. Crying.

"What?"

"I don't know, I don't know, but we have to do something--"

"It's too late, by twenty years."

"My thunder rends the morning sky,

yes, I am here.

The loss to flame when I was man,

now I ride her without fear,

for I am more than man now,

and man built me with pride,

I led the way and I lead the way

to man's future in the sky.

"For my wings are made of tungsten,

my flesh of glass and steel,

I am the joy of Terra for the power that I wield.

Once upon a lifetime, I died a pioneer,

Now I sing within a spaceship's heart,

Does anybody hear? Does anybody hear?"

The song faded out, and the room was quiet, except for Curtis, who stared at the wall and muttered over and over, "God damn them. We were so near. God damn them all."

The room spouted a geyser of talk when the newsreader finished. Most of the fen chattered excitedly to each other; but Sherrine noticed a few thoughtful faces. Chuck Umber was busily scribbling in a pocket notebook. Wade Curtis was sunk into himself, elbows on knees and chin in hands, mouth slack, eyes hooded… eyes touched Sherrine's, wandered away, wandered back…

Drunk. Can't say I blame him.

"Come on," said Bob, rising from the sofa and tugging her arm. "We've got to tell the others."

She pulled him back down. "I think they already know. Quiet. I want to hear what gets said here."

"This crowd? Why?"

"Ideas. That's what fen are for."

Someone in the room spoke through the din. "What are we going to do about it?"

The chatter died down. "Do? What can we do?"

Chuck Umber took center stage. "Look," he said, "the 'danes say that the Angels escaped. Well, they sure didn't escape on their own. They had to have had help. We've got to find out who's got them and offer to help."

"Maybe the Eskimos have them," Horowitz suggested. "The paper says that there were tracks around the scooper. "

"It doesn't matter," Chuck replied. "Well find out who has them, sooner or later."

Bob tried to sink down lower in the sofa. Sherrine's pressure on his elbow stopped him.

"Maybe we shouldn't try to contact them, Chuck," said Dick Wolfson. "Whoever's got the Angels might have to hide them for a long time. The fewer people who know who and where, the better."

Chuck shook his head. "Not when the people are fen. I'm going to try and reach the Oregon Ghost. He must know something."

"Sure, Chuck. The Ghost runs his own fanzine. You think he'd let a competitor in on whatever scoop he has?"

Chuck stood up taller. "He will. Because this is the--biggest thing to hit fandom since Star Wars… or Apollo Thirteen. We've, got to transcend factions and feuds and pull together."

Harry and Jenny had started a song, singing softly as background as the others talked. "… and he knew he might not make it, for it's never hard to die, but he rode her into history, on a fire in the sky!"

Wade Curtis uncurled and stretched and said, "They can't hide them."

There was an instant hush when the writer spoke.

Drunk or sober, the hard science fiction writers were supposed to know everything. Fans laughed at them when they made mistakes, but always listened… and Wade Curtis had a voice that filled every corner.

"Whoever it is, they can't hide the Angels forever. Think it through. No, there's only one thing to do, get the Angels back where they belong. God damn NASA. Where we all belong. God damn them, they ate the dream. For money. For money. The Angels belong up there. We have to send them back."

"That's crazy." "No Wades right." "Hell, he's drunk." "Wouldn't you be?" "But how?" "They'll need a rocket." "Where can you find a rocket these days?"

Sherrine clenched Bob's upper arm so hard he winced. Yes! Yes, where can you find a rocket? She leaned forward, to hear better.

Wade laughed. "The nearest rocket I know of is Ron Cole's Titan."

Chuck and some of the other older fen laughed, too. A younger fan spoke up. "What Titan is that?"

Wade flipped a hand. Someone put a drink in it. "Old fannish legend has it that Ron once cobbled a Titan Two together from spare parts he bought from government surplus sales. Cost him less than a thousand dollars, too. He was on the Board of Trustees for the Metropolitan Museum of Boston. He wanted it for an exhibit, of course. The Boston papers caught him trying to get the motors through the doors. They ran an article calling him 'the world's sixth nuclear power.' "

Sherrine clenched and unclenched her fists. But where is it now? She dared not draw attention to herself. But a Titan! Titans had lifted the Gemini capsules into orbit.

Chuck laughed. "I remember that article, Wade. Boy, was Ron mad! He tried to tell the papers that he did not have a nuclear warhead; but you know how 'danes are. Rockets equals missiles equals weapons equals nukes. Sometimes I wonder if Ron didn't go ahead and build a bomb just for the hell of it. As long as everyone thought he had one… "

"Building a warhead isn't as easy as the 'danes think. I don't care how many TV movies they show with terrorists and mad scientists whipping 'em up in their garage. Uranium hexafloride isn't just radioactive, it's toxic as hell. Refining U-235 is not something you can do in your garage; not without an ample supply of disposable terrorists," Wade said wistfully.

Chuck ran his fingers through his goatee. "Still, if anyone could do it, Cole could. He always had something wonderful in his pocket. A laboratory opal, a big chunk of artificial sapphire for armor, a couple of strips of platinum--"

"Platinum?"

"I never knew why. Some failed project. And once he typed a guy a check on a sheet of soft gold. The first check bounced, see--"

"Not Ron," Wade insisted. "Not a bomb. He knows better. But I did hear that he squirreled away a couple of tank cars of RP-1 and LOX. Just in case he decided to take a trip." He shook his head. "Poor guy is mad as a hatter these days. They kept booting him out of one museum after another. Didn't like his technophile leanings. Is it still paranoia when they really are out to get you?"

"Where is he now?" asked Wolfson. Sherrine held her breath.

Wade pursed his lips. "Ron and his Titan wound up in Chicago at the Museum of Science and Industry. Don't know where his fuel trucks went, maybe there. The LOX is long gone anyway, of course, but that's not so hard to make…"

Sherrine's heart pounded. Chicago! Why, that was just a short drive across Wisconsin. So close! She tugged on Bob's arm. "Let's get up to the room. We've got to tell the others."

Wade Curtis listened with half an ear while Chuck and Dick debated the wisdom of searching for the Angels.

Someone had to know something. Any two people in the country were connected by a chain of no more than two intermediate acquaintances. That was elementary probability. So, he knew someone who knew someone who knew the people who had the Angels. The question was who? He knew a lot of someones.

Reason it the other way. Start with the people who had the Angels. Figure out who they had to be.Government? Possible… but then the government would be bragging, the ACLU would be protecting their rights…

Inuit? Maybe, but not for long. The Inuits lived a physical life, and the Angels weren't going to be ready for that.

Some third group. Someone with medical resources, because if they didn't have medical resources the Angels would be dead already. Maybe they were. Assume they weren't, see where that got you. Like in playing bridge, decide what it takes to make the contract; then assume the cards did fall that way, and go for it.