s job is done." The old man smiled. "I've
watched you, of course, for years. Mariel saw that you were given his
job when he left PIB to edit '_Fighting World_.' He didn't think you
were the man, he didn't trust you--thought you had been raised too
strongly on the sort of gibberish you were writing. I thought you were
the only man we could use. So we let you follow the trail, and watched
to see how you'd handle it. And when you came to the Nevada plant, we
_knew_ you were the man we had to have--"

Shandor scowled, looking first at Ingersoll, then at Mariel's impassive
face. "What about Ann?" he asked, and his voice was unsteady. "She knew
about it all the time?"

"No. She didn't know anything about it. We were afraid she had upset
things when she didn't turn my files over to Dartmouth as he'd told her.
We were afraid you'd go ahead and write the story as you saw it then,
which would have wrecked our plan completely. As it was, she helped us
sidestep the danger in the long run, but she didn't know what she was
really doing." He grinned. "The error was ours, of course. We simply
underestimated our man. We didn't know you were that tenacious."

Shandor's face was haggard. "Look. I--I don't know what to think. This
ship in Arizona--how long? When will it come? How do you know it'll ever
come?"

"We waited until our agents there gave us a final report. The ship may
be leaving at any time. But there's no doubt that it'll come. If it
doesn't, one from Russia will. It won't be long." He looked at Shandor
closely. "You'll have to decide by then, Tom."

"And if I don't go along with you?"

"We could lose. It's as simple as that. Without a spokesman, the plan
could fall through completely. There's only one thing you need to make
your decision, Tom--faith in men, and a sure conviction that man was
made for the stars, and not for an endless circle of useless wars. Think
of it, Tom. That's what your decision means."

Shandor walked to the window, stared out at the bleak landscape, watched
the great bluish globe of earth, hanging like a huge balloon in the
black sky. He saw the myriad pinpoints of light in the blackness on all
sides of it, and shook his head, trying to think. So many things to
think of, so very many things--

"I don't know," he muttered. "I just don't know--"

* * * * *

It was a long night. Ideas are cruel, they become a part of a man's
brain, an inner part of his chemistry,