But if that was so, how come Skinner, who didn't even work for Porter, was so knowledgeable about the drive? Or was that liquor talking? "Did you help him build it?" the reporter asked smoothly. "_Help_ him build it? Why, I--" Then Skinner stopped abruptly. "Why, no," he said after a moment. "No. I don't know anything about it, really. I just know that it worked in '79, that's all." He finished his drink and got off his stool. "Well, I've got to be going. Nice talking to you. Hope I see you again sometime." "Sure. So long, Mr. Skinner." He watched the man leave the bar. Then he finished his own drink and went back into the lobby and got a phone. Ten minutes later, a friend of his who was a detective on the Los Angeles police force had promised to check into Mr. Samuel Skinner. Elshawe particularly wanted to know what he had been doing in the past three years and very especially what he had been doing in the past year. The cop said he'd find out. There was probably nothing to it, Elshawe reflected, but a reporter who doesn't follow up accidentally dropped hints isn't much of a reporter. He came out of the phone booth, fired up his pipe again, and strolled back to the bar for one more drink before he went back to Porter's ranch. * * * * * Malcom Porter took one of the darts from the half dozen he held in his left hand and hurled it viciously at the target board hung on the far wall of the room. _Thunk!_ "Four ring at six o'clock," he said in a tight voice. _Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!_ The other five darts followed in rapid succession. As he threw each one, Porter snapped out a word. "They ... can't ... stop ... Malcom ... Porter!" He glared at the board "Two bull's-eyes; three fours, and a three. Twenty-five points. You owe me a quarter, Elshawe." The reporter handed him a coin. "Two bits it is. What can you do, Porter? They've got you sewed up tight. If you try to take off, they'll cart you right back to The Rock--if the Army doesn't shoot you down first. Do you want to spend the next ten years engrossed in the scenic beauties of San Francisco Bay?" "No. And I won't, either." "Not if the Army gets you. I can see the epitaph now: _Malcom Porter, with vexation, Thought he could defy the nation. He shot for space with great elation-- Now he's dust and radiation._ Beneath it, they'll engrave a spaceship argent with A-bombs rampant on a field sable." Porter didn't take offense. He grinned. "What are you griping about? It would make a great story." "Sure it would," Elshawe agreed. "But not for me. I don't write the obituary column." "You know what I like about you, Elshawe?" "Sure. I lose dart games to you." "That, yes. But you really sound worried. That means two things. One: You like me. Two: You believe that my ship actually will take off. That's more than any of those other reporters who have been prowling around and phoning in do."