"_Now_, what's wrong. What did _I_ say?" demanded Althea, bewildered. He told them about his order preventing the flight. Althea stared at him. Mother reached and snapped off the audio. "_What_ did you say, young man?" He repeated it. Into the waiting silence came a distant "psssheeew!" rushing in from the dining room, flinging the kitchen door wide, his son ran in, waving a bright red Rocket in one grimy fist. "Psssheeew! I'm a Rocket! Gangway! Hi, Dad!" He swung the ship in a quick arc. "Gonna be a pilot when I'm sixteen! Hey." He stopped. "What's everybody standing around for?" He looked at Grandma. "Grammy?" He looked at his mother. "Mom?" And finally at his father. "Dad...?" His hands sank slowly. He read the look in his father's eyes. "Oh, gosh." * * * * * By three o'clock that afternoon, he had showered and dressed in clean clothes. The house was very silent. Althea came and sat down in the living room and looked at him with hurt, stricken eyes. He thought of quoting a few figures at her. Five million people killed in auto accidents since the year 1920. Fifty thousand people killed every year, _now_, in 'copters and jet-planes. But it wasn't in the figures, it was in a feeling he had to make her _feel_. Maybe he could illustrate it to her. He picked up the hand-audio, dialed a number. "Hello, Smitty?" The voice on the other end said, clearly, "Oh, Mr. Stanley?" "Smitty, you're a good average man, a pleasant neighbor, a fine farmer. I'd like your opinion. Smitty, if you knew a war was coming, would you help prevent it?" Althea was watching and listening. Smitty said, "Hell, yes. Sure." "Thanks, Smitty. One more thing. What's your opinion of the Rocket?" "Greatest thing in history. Say, I heard you were going to--" Stanley did not want to get involved. He hurriedly excused himself and hung up. He looked directly at his wife. "Did you notice the separation of means from end? Smitty thinks two things. He thinks he can prevent war; that's one. He thinks the Rocket is a great thing; that's number two. But they don't match, unfortunately. "The Rocket isn't a means to happiness the way it'll be used. It's the wrong means. And with a wrong means you invariably wind up with a wrong end. A criminal seeks wealth. Does he get it? Temporarily. In the end, he suffers. All because he took the wrong _means_." Stanley held his hands out, uselessly. "How can I make you understand." Tears were in her eyes. "I understand _nothing_, and don't need to understand! Your job, they'll take it away from you and fly the Rocket anyway!" "I'll work on the legislation again, then!" "And perhaps be killed? No, please, Will." Killed. He looked at his watch. Exactly three. He answered the audio when it buzzed. "Stanley talking." "Stanley, this is Cross, at Cal-Tech." "Cross! Good Lord, it's good to hear you!"