"I know," Saunders said. "Two wars in the past thirty years and now another one. But consider this a moment. A trip to the Moon would probably end all hostilities on Earth. It would probably unify this planet as no other force has ever done. It will galvanize humanity into constructive action. It will open new vistas that cannot possibly admit plans for war." * * * * * Peterson yawned openly. "Mmmm. I must say you're an idealist, Saunders. I doubt very much if anything short of a trip to the Sun would unify the people of Earth." He chuckled a little at this and looked to the others for approval. "That's right," Bragg agreed. "There'll always be wars, Saunders; the Earth is overpopulated, always will be." "More reason to find new worlds," Saunders said tiredly. "The only solution is war," Bragg insisted. "Survival of the fittest. Forget your crazy ideas about new worlds. There's plenty of room right here ... for the people who win." "And suppose we lose this time?" Saunders asked. "We'll never lose," Bragg said with certainty. Slade smiled a thin, wry smile. "Exactly, Bragg," he said. "As for me, whenever people are ready to fight, I'll be ready to supply them with the goods they'll need. In the meantime, the Moon can wait." "A year, maybe two," Saunders pleaded, "and the Universe will be open to us. Think of it, think of it...." Again his eyes lit with intense ardor. "You think of it," Bragg said, "I'm going home." The other men nodded and began bustling into their overcoats. Saunders stood by helplessly, feeling his last ounce of strength seep from his body. "Nice of you to think of us," Thorpe said cheerily. "Business is business, though." "Yes," Saunders said quietly. "If you can figure a way to put a warhead on that rocket of yours," Slade suggested. "Not a bad idea," Bragg admitted. "Well, Saunders," Peterson said, "we've got to be running. No hard feelings, of course; in fact, I wish you lots of luck." He chuckled again and opened the door. "Good night." The rest of the men filed out after him, nodding their farewells. Saunders watched them through the window of his laboratory, watched chauffeurs open the doors to long limousines, watched tail lights disappear into the blackness of the night, little red pin-points emphasizing his failure. He walked back to the table and sat, cradling his head in his arms, leaning on the blueprints of his ship. _All I needed was money_, he thought, _money and a little time. A year or two at the most. A year or two._ Slowly he rose and brushed a thin hand over his wet eyes. There was work to be done, and tomorrow was another day. He walked to the door leading to his inner laboratory and paused. It was past midnight, and being a punctilious person, Saunders ripped the day's page from the calendar, exposing the new day to view. The new day was September 21st, the year 3951. He snapped off the lights and stepped quickly into the other room.