almost vagabondish simplicity,
still a concession in lightness and compactness for atmospheric transit,
to that first and greatest problem--breaking the terrific initial grip
of Earth's gravity from the ground upward, and gaining stable orbital
speed. Only a tremendously costly rocket, with a thrust greater than its
own weight when fully loaded, could do that. Buying a blastoff passage
_had_ to be expensive.

"Figuring, scrounging, counting our pennies, risking our necks," Nelsen
chuckled. "And maybe, even if we make it, we'll be just a third-rate
group, lost in the crowd that's following the explorers... Just the
same, I wish you could plan to go, too, Paul."

"Don't rub it in, kid. But I figure on kicking in a couple of thousand
bucks, soon, to help you characters along."

Nelsen felt an embarrassed lift of hope.

"You shouldn't, Paul," he advised. "We've overrun and taken possession
of your shop--almost your store, too. You've waived any profit, whenever
we've bought anything. That's enough favors."

"My dough, my pleasure... Let's each get one of Reynolds' beers and
hotdogs, if any are left..."

Later, when all the others had gone, except Gimp Hines, they uncovered
the Archer, which everyone else had tried. Paul got into it, first. Then
Nelsen took his turn, sitting as if within an inclosed vault, hearing
the gurgle of bubbles passing through the green, almost living fluid of
the air-restorer capsule. Chlorophane, like the chlorophyl of green
plants, could break up exhaled carbon dioxide, freeing the oxygen for
re-breathing. But it was synthetic, far more efficient, and it could use
much stronger sunlight as an energy source. Like chlorophyl, too, it
produced edible starches and sugars that could be imbibed, mixed with
water, through a tube inside the Archer's helmet.

Even with the Archer enclosing him, Nelsen's mind didn't quite reach. He
had learned a lot about space, but it remained curiously inconceivable
to him. He felt the frost-fringed thrill.

"Now we know--a little," he chortled, after he stood again, just in his
usual garb.

It was almost eight o'clock. Gimp Hines hadn't gone to supper, or to
celebrate decision on one of the last evenings of any kind of freedom
from work. He couldn't wait for that... Under fluorescent lights, he was
threading wire through miniature grommets, hurrying to complete the
full-size ionic drive. He said, "Hi, Frank," and let his eyes drop,
again, into absorption in hi