fore him, but a face--the
stern craggy face of an obstacle in his path.

Lee Gorman.

The face was of clay--yet it lived. The eyes were cold, disdainful. And
a weird, green creation of Joshua's own mind was sketching Gorman in the
numbers, signs, and symbols of a rocket that would never reach the Moon.

Joshua awoke with a start and found Lucy bending over him. "You didn't
answer the buzzer, Mr. Lake. I was worried."

"I must have dozed off, Lucy. Sorry."

"I'm going home now--if there's nothing else."

"Nothing else. I'm going home myself. Good night."

Joshua paused beside his car in the parking lot to stare at the lighted
windows of the big hangar. The second shift had come on. They would work
all night; then, tomorrow, they would line up with the others at the pay
window. But there wouldn't be any money. The next night the hangar
windows would be dark.

He got into the car and drove home.

Myra was waiting for him. She took his hat. After he kissed her, she
said, "Your eyes are red, dear. You've been working much too hard. Shall
we have dinner in the patio?"

"That would be nice."

Joshua had little to say during the meal, and Myra was quiet
also--adjusting herself, as she had always done, to his mood. Finally,
she said, "That will be all, Bertha. Leave the coffee pot."

The maid left. A slight chill was coming in off the desert. Joshua
shivered and said, "We're through, Myra."

"Through? I don't understand."

"The Moon trip. I can't swing it. The money's run out. There's no place
I can raise another dime."

"But you've worked so hard--and so long! And you are so close to
success."

"We've made a lot of progress, but the rocket isn't ready yet. Now it's
too late."

They were silent for a time. Then Myra said, "In a way, I'm glad. You
should have stopped long ago. You aren't strong enough to stand this
pace forever. Now we can go away--get a small place somewhere. That Moon
rocket was killing you, Joshua."

Joshua pondered the point. "Killing me? No, I don't think so. I think it
has been keeping me alive."

"Don't say that, dear! You make it sound so--so brutal! Year in and
year out. Fighting disappointment--failure. Aging before my eyes while I
sit here night after night!"

_Fighting disappointment--failure._ Yes. That was the kind of fight it
had been. How many failures? The first big one had come six years
before....

"Acceleration, Monsieur, must be achieved in the first two thousand