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space-suited
figures who detached themselves from the rest to follow him. Once inside
the odorous, cramped laboratory, Dabney opened his face-plate and began
to speak before Cochrane was ready to hear him. His companion beamed
amiably.
"—and therefore, Mr. Cochrane," Dabney was saying agitatedly, "I insist
that measures be taken to protect my scientific reputation! If this test
should fail, it will militate against the acceptance of my discovery! I
warn you—and I have my friend Mr. Simms here as witness—that I will
not be responsible for the operation of apparatus made by a subordinate
who does not fully comprehend the theory of my discovery! I will not be
involved—"
Cochrane nodded. Dabney, of course, didn't understand the theory of the
field he'd bought fame-rights to. But there was no point in bringing
that up. Johnny Simms beamed at both of them. He was the swimmer Babs
had pointed out in the swimming-pool. His face was completely unlined
and placid, like the face of a college undergraduate. He had never
worried about anything. He'd never had a care in the world. He merely
listened with placid interest.
"I take it," said Cochrane, "that you don't mind the test being made, so
long as you don't have to accept responsibility for its failure—and so
long as you get the credit for its success if it works. That's right,
isn't it?"
"If it fails, I am not responsible!" insisted Dabney stridently. "If it
succeeds, it will be because of my discovery."
Cochrane sighed a little. This was a shabby business, but Dabney would
have convinced himself, by now, that he was the genius he wanted people
to believe him.
"Before the test," said Cochrane gently, "you make a speech. It will be
recorded. You disclaim the crass and vulgar mechanical details and
emphasize that you are like Einstein, dealing in theoretic physics only.
That you are naturally interested in attempts to use your discovery, but
your presence is a sign of your interest but not your responsibility."
"I shall have to think it over—," began Dabney nervously.
"You can say," promised Cochrane, "that if it does not work you will
check over what Jones did and tell him why."
"Y-yes," said Dabney hesitantly, "I could do that. But I must think it
over first. You will have to delay—"
"If I were you," said Cochrane confidentially, "I would plan a speech to
that effect because the test is coming off in five minutes."
He closed his face-plate as Dabney began to protest. He went into the
lock. He knew better than to hold anything up while waiting for a
neurotic to make a decision. Dabney had all he wanted, now. From this
moment on he would be frantic for fear of losing it. But there could be
no argument outside the laboratory. In the airlessness, anything anybody
said by walkie-talkie could be heard by everybody.
When Dabney and Simms followed out of the lock, Cochrane was helping
Jones set up the device that had been prepared for this test. It was
really two devices. One was a very flat cone, much like a coolie-hat and
hardly larger, with a sort of power-pack of coils and batteries
attached. The other was a space-ship's distress-signal rocket, designed
to make a twenty-mile streak of red flame in emptiness. Nobody had yet
figured out what good a distress signal would do, between Earth and
moon, but the idea was soothing. The rocket was four feet long and six
inches in diameter. At its nose there was a second coolie-hat cone, with
other coils and batteries.
Jones set the separate cone on the ground and packed stones around and
under it to brace it. His movements were almost ridiculously deliberate.
Bending over, he bent slowly, or the motion would lift his feet off the
ground. Straightening up, he straightened slowly, or the upward impetus
of his trunk would again lift him beyond contact with solidity. But he
braced the flat cone carefully.
He set the signal-torpedo over that cone. The entire set-up was under
six feet tall, and the coolie-hat cones were no more
figures who detached themselves from the rest to follow him. Once inside
the odorous, cramped laboratory, Dabney opened his face-plate and began
to speak before Cochrane was ready to hear him. His companion beamed
amiably.
"—and therefore, Mr. Cochrane," Dabney was saying agitatedly, "I insist
that measures be taken to protect my scientific reputation! If this test
should fail, it will militate against the acceptance of my discovery! I
warn you—and I have my friend Mr. Simms here as witness—that I will
not be responsible for the operation of apparatus made by a subordinate
who does not fully comprehend the theory of my discovery! I will not be
involved—"
Cochrane nodded. Dabney, of course, didn't understand the theory of the
field he'd bought fame-rights to. But there was no point in bringing
that up. Johnny Simms beamed at both of them. He was the swimmer Babs
had pointed out in the swimming-pool. His face was completely unlined
and placid, like the face of a college undergraduate. He had never
worried about anything. He'd never had a care in the world. He merely
listened with placid interest.
"I take it," said Cochrane, "that you don't mind the test being made, so
long as you don't have to accept responsibility for its failure—and so
long as you get the credit for its success if it works. That's right,
isn't it?"
"If it fails, I am not responsible!" insisted Dabney stridently. "If it
succeeds, it will be because of my discovery."
Cochrane sighed a little. This was a shabby business, but Dabney would
have convinced himself, by now, that he was the genius he wanted people
to believe him.
"Before the test," said Cochrane gently, "you make a speech. It will be
recorded. You disclaim the crass and vulgar mechanical details and
emphasize that you are like Einstein, dealing in theoretic physics only.
That you are naturally interested in attempts to use your discovery, but
your presence is a sign of your interest but not your responsibility."
"I shall have to think it over—," began Dabney nervously.
"You can say," promised Cochrane, "that if it does not work you will
check over what Jones did and tell him why."
"Y-yes," said Dabney hesitantly, "I could do that. But I must think it
over first. You will have to delay—"
"If I were you," said Cochrane confidentially, "I would plan a speech to
that effect because the test is coming off in five minutes."
He closed his face-plate as Dabney began to protest. He went into the
lock. He knew better than to hold anything up while waiting for a
neurotic to make a decision. Dabney had all he wanted, now. From this
moment on he would be frantic for fear of losing it. But there could be
no argument outside the laboratory. In the airlessness, anything anybody
said by walkie-talkie could be heard by everybody.
When Dabney and Simms followed out of the lock, Cochrane was helping
Jones set up the device that had been prepared for this test. It was
really two devices. One was a very flat cone, much like a coolie-hat and
hardly larger, with a sort of power-pack of coils and batteries
attached. The other was a space-ship's distress-signal rocket, designed
to make a twenty-mile streak of red flame in emptiness. Nobody had yet
figured out what good a distress signal would do, between Earth and
moon, but the idea was soothing. The rocket was four feet long and six
inches in diameter. At its nose there was a second coolie-hat cone, with
other coils and batteries.
Jones set the separate cone on the ground and packed stones around and
under it to brace it. His movements were almost ridiculously deliberate.
Bending over, he bent slowly, or the motion would lift his feet off the
ground. Straightening up, he straightened slowly, or the upward impetus
of his trunk would again lift him beyond contact with solidity. But he
braced the flat cone carefully.
He set the signal-torpedo over that cone. The entire set-up was under
six feet tall, and the coolie-hat cones were no more
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