And that would create a far stronger basis for tomorrow's world government. As civilization stood, it needed a world government desperately. Either that, or atomic energy would destroy it. Either world government or war. _So there it is!_ Morrow concluded. He had a mechanism for controlling the pull of gravity. Either that mechanism was destroyed and forgotten, or the world's present balance of power would be destroyed and humanity plunged into atomic war. But if the mechanism was destroyed, humanity wouldn't have it for the future development of world government and civilization. And they needed it. The present automobiles, trains, and aircraft were all very streamlined and marvelous when compared to the horse and buggy, but they were still too limited, too cumbersome and too costly. There had to be something for the average man, earning the average salary, that would haul him--and extend his interests--to the far corners of the world. The mechanism would do that. Mankind would need it to develop a sound, productive future. But if it wasn't destroyed, there would be atomic war. There wouldn't be any future! * * * * * It was after midnight when he rose from his chair, pulled on a pair of slacks and a sweater, and left the house. He locked the front door and walked around to the garage. Swinging the door back, he felt his way into the darkness, touched the familiar surfaces of his little motor-bike, and rolled it out to the drive-way. Mounting, he kicked the starter, and the little one-cylinder, 15 horsepower engine exploded into a throaty chatter. He rode down the dark, tree-lined streets, the cool air whipping over his body. Swinging into Railroad Avenue, he pulled over to the curb and stopped before the lighted windows of the telegraph office. He strode in, scribbled off a telegram, and paid for it. The office girl, counting the words, stopped and frowned. She shoved it back across the counter to him. "Does that make sense?" she asked dubiously. Morrow glanced over it again and smiled. It read: WESTERTON, NEW JERSEY August 6, 1960 D. P. SMITH ACME CROP DUSTERS INC. DENVER, COLORADO SCRAMBLE WESTERTON. WIRE E-T-A. MAY DAY. BILL MORROW He shoved it back to her. "It makes sense, all right. And I'm expecting a quick reply, so I'll be waiting across the street in Switzer's Cafe." "It may take some time--" "That reply will come as quickly as you people can handle it," Morrow retorted. "A crop-dusting pilot is accustomed to getting telegrams in the middle of the night--and answering them, before some other outfit can grab the job being offered!" The girl shrugged her thin shoulders. "All right, then. You'll be over at Switzer's--" "Right." She scribbled a note on a memo pad. Morrow turned and strode out.