Reaching For The Moon By S. A. LOMBINO It was no longer a question of theory, but of money. Man could reach the moon, if Saunders could persuade someone to finance him. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction Quarterly November 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The laboratory was brightly lit, and four men in business suits surrounded the large table. They stared down at the blueprints on the table, some scratching their heads, others rubbing their chins in speculation. The thin man in gray tweeds eyed them cautiously, his breath coming in short, anxious rushes. The big man at the head of the table adjusted his eyeglasses, his hand lingering on the rim for a second. Then he cleared his throat and said, "It won't work, Dr. Saunders." The little man in gray tweeds darted impatient eyes at the man who had just spoken. "Why won't it work? Why not?" "It can't be done," the big man stated simply. "Maybe sometime in the future, but certainly not now." Saunders stretched a bony hand out from the cuff of his tweeds. "It can be done," he said, slapping that hand on the table. "It's all here. You've just seen it; you've studied it. Damn it, this isn't a fly-by-night affair! I've worked on these plans for more than eight years. I _know_ it will work." A man in blue serge shrugged and said, "I'm afraid Bragg is right, Dr. Saunders." He tugged at his collar, the fat hanging in loose folds around his neck. Saunders turned to eye the newcomer. "You agree?" he asked defiantly. "Even after studying my work? You agree that my proposed rocket couldn't possibly reach the Moon?" "It might," the man in blue serge admitted, "but we can't speculate on a thing of this nature. After all, Dr. Saunders, there'll be money involved and...." "Money!" Saunders snorted in disgust. "Is that all you're worried about? You're one of the richest men on Earth, Mr. Peterson. How can you let money stand in the way of what may well be man's greatest achievement?" Bragg spoke again, peering from behind the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. "Peterson is right; this thing would cost millions--more than any of us would be willing to risk. We appreciate your considering us, but...." Saunders cut in sharply, "Does that go for all of you? Is Mr. Bragg speaking for all of you?" A heavy silence crowded into the room. Saunders confronted Peterson again. "He speaks for me," Peterson said. "And you, Mr. Thorpe?" Saunders asked. "Yes, yes, I'm inclined to agree," a balding man in glen plaid announced. "Mr. Slade?" Saunders turned to a weasel-like man dressed in solemn black. Slade nodded, his face chalky white against the black of his garb.