“Precisely what I was wondering,” said Hamilton. “Good artificial jewels have been made for more than a century. But real gems have not lost an iota of their value.” He paused to sip his brandy, added, “So you gentlemen have let the mere words _matter-transmission_ terrify you.” “If the words alarmed _us_,” said Harris, “consider their effect on humanity at large.” “Probably much less than you suppose,” said Hamilton. “Remember, humanity at large has much less immediately at stake in the various forms of transportation than either of you.” Forsythe seemed to have lost interest. “You’re right, Park, much as I hate to admit it. We’re up against nothing a little well-guided public relations campaign won’t handle. And you--SPR--have come up with another impractical invention.” “Impractical?” said Hamilton, looking one by one at the others in the room. “I wouldn’t say so. Sven Ryan, you set out to develop a means of making space-flight economically feasible. When your transmitter proved unable to send living creatures intact, you thought you had failed.” “What have you got in mind, Park?” the inventor asked. “Just this,” said Hamilton. “What has made any successful establishment of posts on the Moon or any of the planets impossible? It is not the transportation of _men_. It is the transportation of material both ways to maintain them and make their operation profitable--scientifically as well as economically. Sven, there’s no Earth curvature between here and the near side of the Moon. Once we set up a transfer-terminus on the near side, the supply problem would be licked.” Ryan leaped on Hamilton, and gave him a bear-hug. “Chief!” he almost shouted. “You’ve done it! You’ve got the answer!” Half-laughing, Hamilton got clear of the inventor and said, “I may have an answer, but _you_ did it.” He turned toward Harris and Forsythe, adding, “Well, what do you gentlemen think now of our impractical gadget?” Harris could only nod. From his relieved expression, from the glint of excitement in his eyes, there was no question where his true sympathies lay. Charley Forsythe stepped forward again, grabbed Ryan and said, “By God, when you get it worked out, I want to go up there.” “You’re too big--and too fat!” said the inventor. “Gentlemen,” said Hamilton, moving in again, “a toast to the transmitter, and to its inventor--and to the Moon and all the moons and planets beyond!” “Passage to anywhere,” Miss Alderman murmured as she lifted her glass. Later, riding back to New York with her in the helirocket, Hamilton felt limp, washed out, distinctly sorry for himself. “Why do I have to get back so soon?” he inquired, a trifle peevishly. “Charley and Ian are having all the fun back there in Antarctica, celebrating.” “Duty calls, Chief,” she said with an indulgent smile. He ignored her. “And all I get is a hug from Sven Ryan. For five bucks, I’d pay Molly Sadler a visit and meet some of those stunners of hers in the flesh.”