August, when you romantics got serious about space, I
made him prove he was over twenty-one..."

They sweated it out, expecting ear-burning phone calls, maybe legal
suits. Nothing happened. Nelsen felt relieved that Lester was gone. One
dangerous link in a chain was removed. Contempt boosted his own arrogant
pride of accomplishment. Then pity came, and anger for the sneers of Jig
Hollins. Then regret for a fallen associate.

The dozen Archers were delivered--there would be a spare, now. The Bunch
continued building equipment, they worked out in the motordrome, they
drilled at donning their armor and at inflating and rigging a bubb. Gimp
Hines exercised with fierce, perspiring doggedness on a horizontal bar
he had rigged in the back of the shop. He meant to compensate for his
bad leg by improving his shoulder muscles.

Most of the guys still figured that Charlie Reynolds would solve their
money problem. But in late November he had a bad moment. Out in front of
Hendricks', he looked at his trim automobile. "It's a cinch I can't use
it Out There," he chuckled ruefully and unprompted. Then he brightened.
"Nope--selling it wouldn't bring one tenth enough, anyhow. I'll get what
we need--just got to keep trying... I don't know why, but some so-called
experts are saying that off-the-Earth enterprises have been
overextended. That makes finding a backer a bit tougher than I thought."

"You ought to just take off on your own, Reynolds," Jig Hollins
suggested airily. "I'll bet it's in your mind. The car would pay for
that. Or since you're a full-fledged nuclear engineer, some company on
the Moon might give you a three year contract and send you out free in a
comfortable vehicle. Or wouldn't you like to be tied that long? I
wouldn't. Maybe I could afford to be an independent, too. Tough on these
shoestring boys, here, but is it _our_ fault?"

Hollins was trying to taunt Reynolds. "You're tiresome, Jig," Reynolds
said without heat. "Somebody's going to poke you sometime..."

Next morning, before going to classes at Tech, Frank Nelsen, with the
possibility of bitter disappointment looming in his own mind, spotted
Glen Tiflin, the switch blade tosser, standing on the corner, not quite
opposite the First National Bank. Tiflin's mouth was tight and his eyes
were narrowed.

Nelsen felt a tingle in his nerves--very cold.

"Hi--what cooks, Tif?" he said mildly.

"To you it's which?" Tiflin snapped.

Nelson led him on. "Sometimes