"A spy, that's what he was--you were right, Matt. I caught him in here with the Bulldog. They were talking and going through the files together--looked like they were planning on skipping out. Fat chance!" Moe laughed mirthlessly. "Whatever they were looking for they won't use now. And nobody else will. Got a match, Matt? I'm going to burn this place to the ground!" Matt stared from the dead bodies to Moe and over to the cabinet with the drawer still half open. He saw the sheaf of papers the Bulldog had been holding just before he died. He remembered again what Loevy had said--_there is something far more precious than any one Rocket ship here_-- "Moe--you're missing out on the fun at the Ship!" Matt said suddenly, intensely. "I'll get out there. But first I got to--" "Let me do it, Moe.--I'd enjoy seeing them two burn together. Afterall, it isn't much of a favor to ask...." Moe looked at him curiously for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not? If it wasn't for you we wouldn't be in here at all tonight. Go ahead. I'll meet you at the Ship. Make a nice big fire!" * * * * * And then Moe was gone and Matt stood alone in the room. He stood and stared down at the dead bodies; Loevy's face showing fear and frustration just as it must have when Moe's bullet found his heart; the Colonel, slumped partially across Loevy's body, the Bulldog face in a tight angry knot, even in death. The colonel had been a brave man, a tough one. Matt wished suddenly that he had not had to die. He crossed hurriedly to the file and pulled the sheaf of papers from the drawer. A sheaf of blue papers--blue papers with white lines.... Blue-prints! That was what Loevy had meant. The calculations had been completed, the blue-prints made. The ship had been almost completed, and now it was destroyed-- _But the blue-prints remained_-- Here were the hopes and dreams of centuries. Here were the plans, the specifications, the construction plans. Fifty years of the Earth's resources, and now the project they had planned and specified was being destroyed in a single night, the night of the fifty-fourth of July-- He stared at the prints, his whole body trembling. He hated the Rocket, he hated everything it had ever stood for in the old world before the crash. It had stripped him of his home, robbed him of his future. It had robbed the whole world of its heritage, and he hated it. And yet, to go to the planets had always been man's great dream. The ship could be destroyed without utterly destroying the dream. Because someday, somehow, men could take these precious papers, sometime when the world was sane again, and build another ship--