"Don't be a fool. The whole country knows you're here. Look, all I want is a chance to talk to Gorham under a truce flag for fifteen minutes. If I don't succeed, you don't lose a thing. What harm can it do?" Moe Arhelger spat into the fire. "Can't do no harm. And it might just break this open for us, once and for all. Then we could go back home." "But if he's a spy--he could have word from reinforcements. Maybe the Army's planning a march--" Loevy snorted. "The Army isn't planning anything. The Army is starving to death. The nearest contingent is in San Diego, and they've got their hands full just scouring the countryside for food. They've got no fuel to come here with even if they felt like it--" Matt scowled. "He could still be a spy." Moe Arhelger nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing at the city man. Then he looked up at Matt. "I know. That's why I want him to go down to the Ship. With you along with him." * * * * * The trip down the mountainside was slow. It was almost a half an hour before they reached the encampment at the bottom, on a gravel road that led straight out to the Rocket site. The road was piled high with rocks, and four men with old felt hats and plaid shirts sat in jeeps, watching the road for a stir of life. Matt and Loevy commandeered a jeep, bounced down a gulley to by-pass the road block, and started along the road toward the fenced enclosure. A spotlight picked them up almost immediately, and Loevy hoisted a white shirt up on a pole, waving it to catch the light. Then slowly they drove ahead, until two more spotlights flashed on from the ship, scanning the sage on either side of them, flickering in their faces as they made their way along. Loevy sat tight-lipped, peering ahead into the darkness. Matthews drove silently. He had never been this close to Rocket Number Five before, but rockets were an old story to him. He had worked on Number Three and Number Four during his two years in the Labor Force. He knew quite enough about rockets. More lights went on as they approached the fence. Inside, off to the left and right were buildings, the storerooms and offices of the Project, and in the center, standing tall, with her lower third enshrouded in scaffolding and canvas, stood the ship-- Rocket Number Five. The last attempt, the straw that broke the camel's back. Four great ships before it, crashing into heaps of rubble, dragging the Earth down with them. And here the fifth, as yet unborn, never to be launched. Matthews made a bitter sound in his throat. When he thought of the horrible fifty-four days just past, he knew that his hate for this Rocket ship and everything it stood for was right. Moe was right, in his fanatical burning hatred of the old world which had struggled blindly to launch its ships, and starved itself to do so. But Moe wanted everything--the ships, the men, the government, everything. Matthews only wanted the ship.