"Yes," Saunders said quietly.
"If you can figure a way to put a warhead on that rocket of yours," Slade suggested.
"Not a bad idea," Bragg admitted.
"Well, Saunders," Peterson said, "we've got to be running. No hard feelings, of course; in fact, I wish you lots of luck." He chuckled again and opened the door. "Good night."
The rest of the men filed out after him, nodding their farewells. Saunders watched them through the window of his laboratory, watched chauffeurs open the doors to long limousines, watched tail lights disappear into the blackness of the night, little red pin-points emphasizing his failure.
He walked back to the table and sat, cradling his head in his arms, leaning on the blueprints of his ship.
All I needed was money, he thought, money and a little time. A year or two at the most. A year or two.
Slowly he rose and brushed a thin hand over his wet eyes. There was work to be done, and tomorrow was another day. He walked to the door leading to his inner laboratory and paused. It was past midnight, and being a punctilious person, Saunders ripped the day's page from the calendar, exposing the new day to view. The new day was September 21st, the year 3951.
He snapped off the lights and stepped quickly into the other room.