ninety-eight-cent bag. They turned out the lights and closed the door softly behind them and went away.

Twenty-one minutes later a young Chemical Warfare classmate of Angel's was hauled from the bosom of his family and after some argument and several lies from Angel permitted himself to be convinced by SecNav's Cadillac and went away with them.

They halted at an ordnance depot in Maryland at eight-fifteen and the young chemist opened padlocks and finally, with many words of caution, delivered into Angel's hands three small flasks.

It was well before two when Angel and his men came back to the field. They alighted with their burdens and whisked them into the ship.

"Find that drink?" said the general indulgently.

"Yes, sir," said Angel.

"Good-boy!" said the general, chuckling over having been young once himself. He had not missed the lipstick and had applied the school solution.

Commander Dawson was growling and snarling around the ship like a vengeful priest. Behind him came two quartermasters carrying the precious standard chronometer and spyglass.

"Better get aboard," said Dawson roughly. "And don't monkey with those instruments. We're almost ready." His scowl promised that it didn't matter to him what happened: this time he was going to get that rocket upstairs!

CHAPTER III

Moon Meeting

Stark death was the Moon. No half-tones, no softness. Black and white. Knife-edged peaks and sharp rills. Hot enough to fry iron. Cold enough to solidify air. Brutal, savage, dead. Strictly Moussorgsky.

A place you wouldn't want to go on a honeymoon, Angel decided.

For all of Dawson's growling they had not hit the target exactly. Slavinsky had drawn a big, lampblack X below the U.S.S.R. on a plateau near Tycho but the ship had hit nearly eight miles from it.

Hit was the word, for if they had not landed in pumice some thirteen feet thick things would have been dented. The abrasive dust had risen suddenly and drifted down with an unnatural slowness.

For a week they had been lying around in the padded cabin, experiencing space sickness, worn out from accelerations and decelerations, living on K and D and C 

 Prev. P 13/27 next