“Yes, as you’ve undoubtedly discovered, half the rocket technicians of your country seem to have joined with them. We got the tip through”—the Russian cleared his throat—“several of our converts who happen to be connected with your space efforts groups.” “Is that so?” Larry said. “I wondered what you thought about their interest in money.” It was the other’s turn to look blank. “Money?” he said. “That’s right. Large quantities of money.” The Russian said, frowning, “I suppose most citizens in your capitalist countries are interested largely in money. One of your basic failings.” ------------------------------------- Driving back to the office, Larry Woolford let it pile up on him. Ernest Self had been a specialist in solid fuel for rockets. When Larry had questioned Professor Voss that worthy had particularly stressed his indignation at how Professor Goddard, the rocket pioneer, had been treated by his contemporaries. Franklin Nostrand had been employed as a technician on rocket research at Madison Air Laboratories. It was too darn much for coincidence. And now something else that had been nagging away at the back of his mind suddenly came clear. Susan Self had said that she and her father had seen the precision dancers at the New Roxy Theater in New York and later the Professor had said they were going to spend the money on chorus girls. Susan had got it wrong. The Rockettes—the precision chorus girls. The Professor had said they were going to spend the money on _rockets_, and Susan had misunderstood. But billions of dollars expended on rockets? How? But, above all, to what end? If he’d only been able to hold onto Susan, or her father; or to Voss or Nostrand, for that matter. Someone to work on. But each had slipped through his fingers. Which brought something else up from his subconscious. Something which had been tugging at him. At the office, Irene Day was packing her things as he entered. Packing as though she was leaving for good. “What goes on?” Larry growled. “I’m going to be needing you. Things are coming to a head.” She said, a bit snippishly, Larry thought, “Miss Polk, in the Boss’ office, said for you to see her as soon as you came in, Mr. Woolford.” “Oh?” He made his way to LaVerne’s office, his attention actually on the ideas churning in his mind. She looked up when he entered. Larry said, “The Boss wanted to see me?” LaVerne ducked her head, as though embarrassed. “Not exactly, Larry.” He gestured with his thumb in the direction of his own cubicle office. “Irene just said you wanted me.” LaVerne looked up into his face. “The Boss and Mr. Foster, too, are boiling about your authorizing that Distelmayer man to bill this department for information he gave you. The Boss hit the roof. Something about the Senate Appropriations Committee getting down on him if it came out that we bought information from professional espionage agents.”