"Finished your inspection, Lyle?" he called out, his voice sharp, brittle. "Yah. I've finished." Lyle strode up with a thoughtful expression creasing his forehead. "You got quite a lay-out here." "Thanks." Morrow hooked his thumb at the ship's open hatchway. "Climb in, Boy Scout. We're taking you back to Uncle." "Ah-hmmm--just a sec, Morrow." Lyle paused, lighting a cigarette. "I've been thinking about that question you asked me--what my attitude would be in your place." "Yes?" Morrow stiffened warily. Lyle grinned. "One of the things that surprises me is that of all the people in your group, none has spilled the beans. How come nobody talked?" "If you had what we've got, would you talk about it?" Lyle chuckled, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "We're back to attitudes, then--right?" He looked up, his gaze suddenly intent. "I think I've got an answer to your question now, Morrow." Morrow squinted at him. "What're you getting at, Lyle?" "Those aircraft construction materials you had shipped to Stockton," Lyle said quietly. "Building an experimental plane without authorization is a federal offense. The fine's five hundred dollars. You got five hundred bucks, Morrow?" "I think so," Morrow replied cautiously. "And you got a couple aeronautical engineers here who could whip up some kind of little airplane, haven't you?" "Suppose I have?" "Well, whip up something! Just so it'll get off the ground--put a motorcycle engine in it--and the Civil Aeronautics boys will have something to take their hatchets to. Plant it out at that sawmill of yours." Lyle's sombre eyes were laughing silently. "So I'll pay a five-hundred-dollar fine?" Morrow asked perplexedly. "Uh huh. And I can write a report that'll close this case." "You--" Morrow broke off, staring at the calm, good-natured agent. "The stuff you've got here is poison to today's world," Lyle said quietly. "Maybe, in time, guys like me can change all that. Until we do--" He left the rest unsaid. Morrow let his breath out slowly. Then he extended his hand. The young agent's grasp was firm, decisive. "If you two're through yakking," Smitty growled, shoving past them, "let's get outta here!" He mounted to the ship's hatch. The two men followed him and the hatch folded shut, flush with the sleek hull. Then, gravs humming, the black ship lifted from the field. It dwindled rapidly into the upper darkness. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Machine That Floats, by Joe Gibson