The senator was thinking fast now, but still the pattern eluded him. "Not an act of war, surely?" he remarked. "More like an act of revolution," Loeffler told him. "Because the agents behind it were _kids_. Kids from our state, our city. Kids from decent homes, educated families. Bright kids. Happy kids. Kids with every opportunity. _Kids who ought to know better--_" "Hold it, Loeffler!" Duran interrupted, rising from the chair to place both hands on the edge of the desk. "Just one question--was anyone killed or injured?" The other man hesitated melodramatically, then looked down at his cigar. "No. There was no one on the island. The place had been closed down for the winter. That's the only pleasant thing about it." Duran found it such unexpectedly good news that he was actually able to smile when he dropped back into the chair. "In other words, Loeffler, it was a prank." But the Attorney General seemed not to see it in precisely that light. "A prank, yes!" he exploded. "A hundred thousand dollar prank! My God, Vance, don't you see what those boys did? They demonstrated the grossest lack of respect for private property. And what if they'd miscalculated? That rocket was fired from a distance of some fifty or sixty miles. It could have killed any number of people along its course had it fallen short." "Well, I'll admit it's not the sort of thing I'd like to see encouraged," said Duran. "Now give me the details. Who were they? Where did they get the rocket? What was the point of it, anyway?" Sigmund Loeffler opened a folder which lay on his desk and started sifting through its contents. He pulled out several memoranda and a list of names, closing the folder again. "There was a gang of eight, all in the eleventh or twelfth grades at Eisenhower High. Five of them were members of the school rocket club. Three of them had juvenile delinquency records--minor stuff, mostly, like copter stunting and public disturbance. The youngest had won a couple of science awards for demonstrations in--" he glanced significantly at the senator, "the chemistry of explosives." Duran said nothing, but his sense of concern was growing. "Let's see," Loeffler went on. "Two of the boys were taking vocational courses. One had his own machine shop, in fact. Then there was the electronics expert--Ceasar Grasso's son--know him?" The senator nodded. "He runs the highschool T-V station. Knows a lot about radio, I understand. Oh, yes. There was also the lad who drew up the plans for the gadget. Pretty sharp at engineering design, they say--" Duran peered numbly across the desk at the grim faced official. This was what he had been fearing all along. But despite his apprehension, he was not entirely ready for it. "That, I suppose," he said quietly, "was my son Roger." Loeffler nodded slowly. "That was your boy, Vance. Sorry I had to be the one to break it to you." "But where is he?" Duran asked. "And does Molly know about it?"