His mind rushed back to his boyhood days, and he remembered sharply the lure of the open spaces he had felt then. Someday, he had dreamed, he would build a rocket to the Moon, and go out there to explore and discover. It hadn't mattered what he would explore, what he would discover. All that had mattered was the urge to go. An urge he had shared with thousands of men—
He hadn't known then that the goal would crush the world into a smoking ruin far worse than any war. A crash that brought slow death by starvation, a crash that wrenched the livelihood from the mouths of millions, a crash that demoralized them and drove them back to the caves to work and fight like savages for a few morsels of bread. He hadn't known that—because it wasn't really necessary that it happen. Men could, someday, find a way to go out without bankrupting the world to do it—
He searched frantically, found a huge pasteboard box. He had seen others moving through the torchlight with boxes filled full of loot. He began loading the blue-prints into it, breathlessly, glancing over his shoulder for fear someone might come in. He reached into his pocket, drew out his revolver and placed it on the cabinet beside him as he worked. Let them burn the buildings and tear up the Ship—but they must not destroy these papers. Let the Rocket Project be dead, utterly dead, torn to shreds by the people of this strange twilight world, but the dream need not die—
He heard a sound behind him, and he whirled, staring up into Moe Arhelger's bearded face. The old man stood there, a strange light in his wild eyes, staring first at Matt, then at the blue papers in the box. "I see now why you wanted to be alone!" He looked up at Matt, a long, slow, savage look. "Dump it, Matt," he said, motioning to the box.
Matthews' arm tightened around the carton. "I want these," he said softly. "You've got your Rocket, Moe. They'll never build another one—"
"I said dump it." There was a harsh edge to the old man's voice. "We're cleaning the place out. Everything. There'll never be another one, never, as long as the world lives."
"But what do you care about these?" Matt cried. "You'll be dead long before they ever try Rockets again."
"They're evil!" the old man snarled. "Everything about them is evil. They've dragged us down into the dirt, down so far we'll never be able to crawl up again—" His rifle levelled, slowly. "Throw those prints on the floor, Matt. Touch a match to them, right here. Or I'll burn them for you."
Slowly Matt turned, lifted up the box. It was heavy; his eyes flicked to the old man, and he rested the box gently on the bench for a moment. And then he threw it in the old man's face, and snatched up the revolver from the bench. He fired four times, and the old man doubled over and pitched forward on his face, groaning. Matt kicked the rifle across the room, throwing the blue-prints back into the box. Panting, he shot out the light, and fled across the compound toward the opened gate.