"Maybe."
Moe's eyes blazed. "They can't try to launch it," he snarled. "It's got to be smashed—smashed so hard they'll never dare try to make another one—" His hand clenched on his rifle until the knuckles were white.
Matt leaned forward eagerly. "Let me go down there, Moe. We've got dynamite. I could find a way to climb the fence, maybe, and start the works off. Once something went bang from the inside and broke their control of the place, we could mop them up."
Moe's hand relaxed. "You'd never make it alive."
"Somebody's got to try. There isn't much time, I'm sure of it—"
"All right. Try it. But before you go, you've got a visitor. I think you'd better talk to her."
The girl was waiting in his tent, sitting alone in the darkness. She looked up into the flashlight beam, and there were wet streaks of dust on her cheeks. "Matt? Is that you?" She stumbled to her feet. "Oh, Matt—"
"Mary!" The big man stared at his wife, his eyes wide. "Mary, what are you doing here? How did you get here, why did you come?" He took her in his arms, held her tight as she pressed her face against his chest, sobbing. Then suddenly he straightened up, held her out at arm's length, staring into her large brown eyes. "Mary—the farm—"
She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, and shook her head miserably. "Gone. City people from San Diego—they came one night, they took it—"