"Spend the thousands."
"Maybe millions."
"Spend the millions. Don't be afraid to spend money. Andy, I don't want this to be a military job." He considered elaborating to the engineer the involved politics back of his decision, thought better of it. "How bad do you actually need that government stuff? Can't you get the same results by hiring engineers who used to work for the government? Or even hire them away from the government right now?"
Ferguson pursed his lips. "If you insist on hampering me, how can you expect me to get results?"
"I am not hampering you. I am telling you that this is not a government project. If you won't attempt to cope with it on those terms, let me know now, so that I can find somebody who will."
Ferguson started playing mumblety-peg on his desk top. When he got to "noses"-and missed-he said quietly, "I mind a boy who used to work for the government at White Sands. He was a very smart lad indeed-design chief of section."
"You mean he might head up your team?"
"That was the notion."
"What's his name? Where is he? Who's he working for?"
"Well, as it happened, when the government closed down White Sands, it seemed a shame to me that a good boy should be out of a job, so I placed him with Skyways. He's maintenance chief engineer out on the Coast."
"Maintenance? What a hell of a job for a creative man! But you mean he's working for us now? Get him on the screen. No-call the coast and have them send him here in a special rocket; we'll all have lunch together."
"As it happens," Ferguson said quietly, "I got up last night and called him-that's what annoyed the Missus. He's waiting outside. Coster-Bob Coster."
A slow grin spread over Harriman's face. "Andy! You black-hearted old scoundrel, why did you pretend to balk?"
"I wasn't pretending. I like it here, Mr. Harriman. Just as long as you don't interfere, I'll do my job. Now my notion is this: we'll make young Coster chief engineer of the project and give him his head. I won't joggle his elbow; I'll just read the reports. Then you leave him alone, d'you hear me? Nothing makes a good technical man angrier than to have some incompetent nitwit with a check book telling him how to do his job."
"Suits. And I don't want a penny-pinching old fool slowing him down, either. Mind you don't interfere with him, either, or I'll jerk the rug out from under you. Do we understand each other?"
"I think we do."
"Then get him in here."
Apparently Ferguson's concept of a "lad" was about age thirty-five, for such Harriman judged Coster to be. He was tall, lean, and quietly eager. Harriman braced him immediately after shaking hands with, "Bob, can you build a rocket that will go to the Moon?"
Coster took it without blinking. "Do you have a source of X-fuel?" he countered, giving the rocket man's usual shorthand for the isotope fuel formerly produced by the power satellite.
Coster remained perfectly quiet for several seconds, then answered, "I can put an unmanned messenger rocket on the face of the Moon."
"Not good enough. I want it to go there, land, and come back. Whether it lands here under power or by atmosphere braking is unimportant."
It appeared that Coster never answered promptly; Harriman had the fancy that he could hear wheels turning over in the man's head. "That would be a very expensive job."
"Who asked you how much it would cost? Can you do it?"
"I could try."
"Try, hell. Do you think you can do it? Would you bet your shirt on it? Would you be willing to risk your neck in the attempt? If you don't believe in yourself, man, you'll always lose."
"How much will you risk, sir? I told you this would be expensive-and I doubt if you have any idea how expensive."
"And I told you not to worry about money. Spend what you need; it's my job to pay the bills. Can you do it?"
"I can do it. I'll let you know later how much it will cost and how long it will take."
"Good. Start getting your team together. Where are we going to do this, Andy?" he added, turning to Ferguson. "Australia?"
"No." It was Coster who answered. "It can't be Australia; I want a mountain catapult. That will save us one step-combination."
"How big a mountain?" asked Harriman~ "Will Pikes Peak do?"
"It ought to be in the Andes," objected Ferguson. "The mountains are taller and closer to the equator. After all, we own facilities there-or the Andes Development Company does."
"Do as you like, Bob," Harriman told Coster. "I would prefer Pikes Peak, but it's up to you." He was thinking that there were tremendous business advantages to locating Earth's space port ~ i inside the United States-and he could visualize the advertising advantage of having Moon ships blast off from the top of Pikes Peak, in plain view of everyone for hundreds of miles to the East.
"I'll let you know."
"Now about salary. Forget whatever it was we were paying you; how much do you want?"
Coster actually gestured, waving the subject away. "I'll work for coffee and cakes."
"Don't be silly."
"Let me finish. Coffee and cakes and one other thing: I get to make the trip.
Harriman blinked. "Well, I can understand that," he said slowly. "In the meantime I'll put you on a drawing account." He added, "Better calculate for a three-man ship, unless you are a pilot."
"I'm not."
"Three men, then. You see, I'm going along, too."
CHAPTER FOUR
"A GOOD THING YOU DECIDED to come in, Dan," Harriman was saying, "or you would find yourself out of a job. I'm going to put an awful crimp in the power company before I'm through with this."
Dixon buttered a roll. "Really? How?"
"We'll set up high-temperature piles, like the Arizona job, just like the one that blew up, around the corner on the far face of the Moon. We'll remote-control them; if one explodes it won't matter. And I'll breed more X-fuel in a week than the company turned out in three months. Nothing personal about it; it's just that I want a source of fuel for interplanetary liners. If we can't get good stuff here, we'll have to make it on the Moon."
"Interesting. But where do you propose to get the uranium for six piles? The last I heard the Atomic Energy Commission had the prospective supply earmarked twenty years ahead."
"Uranium? Don't be silly; we'll get it on the Moon."
"On the Moon? Is there uranium on the Moon?"
"Didn't you know? I thought that was why you decided to join up with me?"
"No, I didn't know," Dixon said deliberately. "What proof have you?"
"Me? I'm no scientist, but it's a well-understood fact. Spectroscopy, or something. Catch one of the professors. But don't go showing too much interest; we aren't ready to show our hand." Harriman stood up. "I've got to run, or I'll miss the shuttle for Rotterdam. Thanks for the lunch." He grabbed his hat and left.
Harriman stood up. "Suit yourself, Mynheer van der Velde. I'm giving you and your colleagues a chance to hedge your bets. Your geologists all agree that diamonds result from volcanic action. What do you think we will find there?" He dropped a large photograph of the Moon on the Hollander's desk.
The diamond merchant looked impassively at the pictured planet, pockmarked by a thousand giant craters. "If you get there, Mr. Harriman."
Harriman swept up the picture. "We'll get there. And we'll find diamonds-though I would be the first to admit that it may be twenty years or even forty before there is a big enough strike to matter. I've come to you because I believe that the worst villain in our social body is a man who introduces a major new economic factor without planning his innovation in such a way as to permit peaceful adjustment. I don't like panics. But all I can do is warn you. Good day."