"Y-you mean," Bowen sputtered, "you're going into space?"
Barbara shook her head. "But—not alone!"
A shadow flicked across Joe's young features. Then he grinned easily. "Why not? I'm no longer safe among men—"
"But you can't go alone!" she stormed. "You—Father! I'm going with him!"
"Barbara!" Bowen shouted. "What on earth—"
"Not on earth!" she cried, leaping forward. She landed in the narrow airlock, thrusting Joe back into its metal confines. She whirled back to her father, grabbing the door's levers to steady herself. "Not for long!" she added breathlessly. "Don't you see, father? He has to go—but he can't go alone! Someone has to be with him, to take care of him, to see that he eats his meals and—and I'm going with him! Goodbye, father! We'll—we'll be back!"
And tugging, panting, she swung the heavy door closed. It swung flush into the smooth, metal hull.
James Bowen stood transfixed, on the edge of the clearing. Behind him was the small, white house with the red roof and the little garden in front, as he watched the sleek, torpedo-shaped spaceship rise effortlessly from the ground and go skimming across the lake, climbing higher and higher until it dwindled to a silvery speck in the clear blue sky and vanished.
Then Bowen's face suddenly took on a new cast. There was a grim, satisfied light in his eyes as he followed the faint vapor trail up into the heavens. Slowly he reached a hand in his coat pocket. From it he withdrew a small metallic object. It was shaped oddly like a pocket radio, but of a more advanced and intricate design.
He depressed a small switch and the object glowed. About him there was the snap and crackle of powerful electrical forces. Bowen's voice suddenly sounded.