There were maps on the walls, covered with gray dustsheets as though even the face of Mother Earth was being protected as an American secret. The High Air Force were smoking cigars; the High Navy ran more to pipes; while the Army's big wheels burned nervous yards of cigarettes. Two Waves sat at opposite corners of the big table, their fingers poised for slow dances over their Stenotype key-boards. The brass regarded me, as craggy-faced as though I were suspected of giving Uncle Nikita the keys to Fort Knox. I opened my briefcase, set the model on the floor, and launched into my story. "You've doubtless heard echoes through channels of recent activity in the Tuvinian Division of the Commerce Department's Special Bureau of Economic Analysis," I began. "Until three weeks ago I was employed at White Sands as an engineer on Project Gargantua. I was transferred to TD/SBEA/DC to make evaluation of information which may make Project Gargantua obsolete." I knew I had my audience when an Air Force general dropped his cigar. "As you know, the highest peak of the Altai Mountains is 15,000 feet tall, high enough to be of help in rocket research. The capital city of the Tuvinian Autonomous Region is Kysyl Khoto. This city has only recently become involved in industrial activity. "Analysis of the materials being shipped to Kysyl Khoto, together with specific information furnished from covert sources, leads us to believe that this activity is concerned with rocket research. "Our tentative conclusion is that the Soviets have several large rocket ships in construction there. One of these, named the _Konstantin Edouardovitch Ziolkovsky_, is intended to reach the moon. The reported exhaust-velocity makes it very likely that they will succeed within the next three years." I lifted the model of the _KEZ_ and set it on the table so that the big red star on its middle was conspicuous. "Our time has been too short and our information too slight to allow me to give you details. Nevertheless, the Russians undoubtedly are building a spaceship." General Turner, USAF, who'd been a _Time_ cover boy several times, tamped a cigarette on the table. "Exactly how much of this model is guesswork, Dr. Huguenard?" he demanded. "Ninety-five percent," I said. "There's a lot of room for worry in that five percent that's left, though. I hardly think the Russians can have been so devious as to have planted false leads in several hundred of their own journals." The Chairman nodded. "That will be all, Dr. Huguenard," he said. "I expect we'll be calling upon you later." That parting note had an ominous ring, I thought, carrying my toy spaceship past the Marine guard. Would they bring handcuffs along next time? * * * * *