"Okay, Dad," he sighed. "No, we didn't have _that_ kind of a reason." "What it amounted to," Duran said, "was that you wanted to do something spectacular like building a rocket and firing it at something. Only to be fun it had to be illegal, if not immoral. And Melvin Skinner's place seemed like the least objectionable target. Isn't that about it?" "Yeah, I guess so. Only we had just about finished the rocket before we started wondering about a target. That was the trouble. Once we'd built it, we had to do something with it." "How do you think that's going to sound in court?" "I don't know, Dad. You're the lawyer." Duran cringed, but tried not to show it. "Roger," he said slowly. "Flippancy is the easiest defense, and the least effective. I hope you won't feel you have to resort to it too often." The boy said nothing. "Well, tell me about it," his father suggested, sensing his son's isolation. "About what?" "The rocket. Wouldn't a jet have been easier to make?" "A rocket was cheaper." The source of the money required for the project was something Duran had overlooked. However, it was, he realized, one best postponed for the present. The important thing now was to regain his son's confidence. "Did you design it?" "Yeah. Well, I drew it up. Nothing very original about it. But it was a good little machine." Duran noticed the boy's restless squirming, saw him perfunctorily place a hand to the baggy pocket of his jacket and quickly withdraw it, then arrived at a decision. Reaching into his own coat, Duran took out the pack of cigarettes, extending it to his son. "Care for a cigarette?" he asked. The youth looked at him doubtfully for an instant. Then he smiled his first smile that evening. "Thanks, Dad," he responded, taking one and lighting it self-consciously. He added, "You've been out of town so much, I didn't think you knew I'd started--" "I know, Rog," the man said, aware of a rising flood of self-condemnation. "Go on, son. About the rocket. What kind of fuel did you use?" "Oh, nothing special. It had a liquid bi-propellant motor. We used ethanol and liquid oxygen. Pretty old-fashioned. But we didn't know how to get hold of the fancier stuff, and didn't have any way of synthesizing it. Then, at the last minute, we found that one of the valves feeding into the nozzle was clogged up. That's why we were late to class." "Couldn't that have been dangerous?" Duran asked, and realized at once that he had said the wrong thing. The boy merely shrugged. "Well, it must have been a pretty good machine if it flew sixty miles and hit its target," Duran went on. "Oh, we had it radio-controlled, with a midget T.V. transmitter mounted in it. Grasso took care of that. He did a terrific job. Of course, it was pretty expensive." He glanced at his father tentatively for a moment, then bent his gaze to the cigarette. "I don't have my car any more. But I guess I won't be needing it now." There was a cautious knock on the door.