By the end of the week I'd sifted the information I thought pertinent to the _KEZ_ from the incidental chaff of Tuvinian life, like those bathtubs. This whole business was like juggling invisible balls. The very fact that Kysyl Khoto had been reached by a spur track of the Yuzsib Railroad had been lifted from only two lines in _Stal's_ midsummer issue, supported, of course, by the laconic note of Dr. von Munger's mysterious Central Asian correspondent. A two-step rocket was the thing to build, that was evident from the reported exhaust-velocity. That lozone--liquid ozone, one and two-thirds as much fuel per cubic foot as garden variety liquid oxygen--was the oxidizer seemed a good bet. What was the fuel? Hydrogen could give 5000 mps, but would be almost impossibly tricky to use with ozone. Hydrazine seemed a better bet. There were memos on several tons of nitric acid being shipped from Krasnoyarsk to Abakan to Kysyl Khoto, together with a batch of nitrate fertilizers ostensibly bound for the "Golden Fleece" Kolkhoz at Kara-buluk. I wondered what they raised on that collective farm. The sort of crops that grow best at White Sands, I imagined. With a lot of ammonia and a passel of electricity, they could simmer out hydrazine where they were going to use it. I designed the fuel tanks necessary to pay the way to the moon in hydrazine and lozone, then sketched a ship around them. Two stages, as I'd decided. Here a serious discrepancy came in. I had more steel, more wolfram, more of everything than the _KEZ_ could possibly need. I took the problem to my pretty boss, glad for the chance to visit. "It would seem," Frances said, looking over my notes, "that they've shipped enough material to Kysyl Khoto to build three ships. Let's assume that they're doing just this. It's one way to get home from the moon, I should think. They'll send three ships there, each carrying enough extra fuel to drive one of them back to Earth after they've planted the flag and geigered around a bit. Or possibly they intend setting up a permanent station there." "It seems to me that we're whistling up a lot of smoke from this little fire," I protested. "We don't know the material they're using to keep the rocket-throats from melting. The notes on rail-shipments from Krasnoyarsk mention ceramics. I don't think that's detailed enough to work into a bogeyman to scare the JCS." I reached over her desk to swipe a cigar from her cylinder, remarking, "It's nice of you to keep these on hand, seeing as you smoke Kools." "Got to keep the staff happy," Frances smiled. "Let's be making more of an effort," I suggested. "How's about that dinner tonight? It's Saturday, you know." "All right, Frank." She jotted her address on a corner of an empty CONFIDENTIAL coversheet and handed it to me. "Eight o'clock," she said. I went back to work refreshed by the prospect of an extramural session with the shapely Dr. Frances von Munger. * * * * *