"Suppose I told you that the fuel my ship uses is a gas lighter than hydrogen. It isn't, but suppose I told you so. Do you think any scientist today could figure out how it worked? No. They _know_ that there's no such thing as a gas with a lighter atomic weight than hydrogen. They know it so well that they wouldn't even bother to consider the idea. "My invention is so far ahead of present-day scientific thought that no scientists except myself could have even considered the idea." "O.K.; O.K.," Elshawe said. "So you're going to get yourself shot down to prove your point." Porter grinned lopsidedly. "Not at all. You're still thinking in terms of a rocket. Sure--if I used a rocket, they'd knock me down fast, just as soon as I lifted above the mountains. But I don't have to do that. All I have to do is get a few feet of altitude and hug the ground all the way to the Pacific coast. Once I get out in the middle of the Pacific, I can take off straight up without being bothered at all." "All right. If your machine will do it," the reporter said, trying to hide his skepticism. "You still think I've got some kind of rocket, don't you?" Porter asked accusingly. He paused a moment, then, as if making a sudden decision, he said: "Look, Elshawe, I trust you. I'm going to show you the inside of that ship. I won't show you my engines, but I _will_ prove to you that there are no rocket motors in her. That way, when you write up the story, you'll be able to say that you have first-hand knowledge of that fact. O.K.?" "It's up to you," the reporter said. "I'd like to see it." "Come along," said Malcom Porter. * * * * * Elshawe followed Porter out to the field, feeling rather grateful that he was getting something to work on. They walked across the field, past the two gun-toting men in Levis that Porter had guarding the ship. Overhead, the stars were shining brightly through the thin mountain air. Elshawe glanced at his wrist watch. It was a little after ten p.m. He helped Porter wheel the ramp up to the door of the ship and then followed him up the steps. Porter unlocked the door and went inside. The Grumman had been built to cruise in the high stratosphere, so it was as air-tight as a submarine. Porter switched on the lights. "Go on in." The reporter stepped into the cabin of the ship and looked around. It had been rebuilt, all right; it didn't look anything like the inside of a normal stratojet. "Elshawe." "Yeah?" The reporter turned to look at Porter, who was standing a little behind him. He didn't even see the fist that arced upward and smashed into his jaw. All he saw was a blaze of light, followed by darkness. The next thing he knew, something was stinging in his nostrils. He jerked his head aside, coughing. The smell came again. Ammonia. "Wake up, Elshawe," Porter was saying. "Have another whiff of these smelling salts and you'll feel better."