My desk at the office had been emptied. I leaned on the button to buzz Joyce, my blonde interpreter. "We were given an order by the Secretary of Commerce," she reported. "He told us to turn over everything on the _KEZ_ to Air Force Intelligence. A squadron of Air Police packed all your papers and took off with them half an hour ago." I went in to see Frances. She stood at the window, looking at the cars passing on the avenue. Her hands were together, the knuckles white with strain. "You did it, Frances," I said. "All the big guns of USAF Intelligence are being zeroed on a little town in Central Asia. If they find our guesses were true, we'll start building a moonship, too. That's what you really want, isn't it?" "Yes, Frank," she said, turning to me. "I want our people to get to the moon. This seems a shoddy way to start, though." "You're right," I admitted. "An armament race isn't an edifying spectacle. But the discovery of America was inspired more by money-grubbers than by idealists, Frances." I pried her hands apart and took them in mine. "Let's go, Frances. There's no work here today. Do you have the drinks at your place to celebrate our victory?" She burst into tears. I held her close till she'd sobbed herself calm, ignoring the telephone buzzing on her desk. No one could have business with Frances von Munger more important than mine. * * * * * By some quiddity of feminine logic, Frances stored her Scotch in the refrigerator. I broke it out and poured two stiff shots into water glasses. I carried them into the living room, where she was sitting stiff and straight on the sofa, like a frightened little girl. "Have some anodyne, Frances. Forget the Department of Commerce and the Altai Mountains. We've done all we can. We've tossed the ball." She took the drink and set it untasted on the arm of the sofa. "That's not it, Frank. You know the message from our tourist in Tuva?" "That note that put the seal of approval on your project? You wrote that yourself, didn't you? The railhead, the spaceship--they all exist only under that golden hair of yours, right?" Frances stared at me as though she expected me to whip out an Army .45 and cover her with it. "Frank! How do you know?" "Until I met you, Frances, I thought dreams of space were male dreams. Then I found a girl who'd become an engineer, who'd then given up engineering to go into intelligence work. Curious. Then the business of the secret message from the USSR: instead of turning it over to the Air Force for immediate evaluation, you chose to elaborate on it by means of a technical study, and even got your boss to push through a priority call for me. Curiouser yet." "If you found out, they can," she said dully.