"That's enough, Mars. I happen to be the one in charge here, not you." His quiet voice made clear the anger he felt. "Reed turned the problem over to us. I say we can lick it. Just because my chief assistant is still thinking in terms of ancient history, it's no reason to send back a report from this laboratory saying we can't handle the problem." He ran a trembling hand through his close-cropped hair and swore at himself when he saw Mars noticed the trembling. Why did he have to start shaking every time he got mad? The person he was mad at invariably took the shaking to be fear, and he would always be forced to drive his point home all the harder in order to get the respect he demanded.
Mars Kenton sneered. "Mind telling me just how you are going to eliminate interstellar drive from our rocket ships? Or have you cooked up another of your bright ideas to try out at the company's expense?"
"I'm fed up with you, Mars!" All control over his temper was gone now and the younger man gave full vent to his anger. His powerful body fairly bristled in his rage and in spite of himself Mars was forced to cringe beneath the assailing roars that followed. "You may be twenty years older than I am; you may have been one of the pioneers in space travel; you may still be a good man if you could forget that the whole world didn't plot that accident that left you with a bad leg—but you're still taking orders from me. We have some good men in this department, and you can either keep your mouth shut and work with us or you can get out. Interstellar drive isn't the only solution to space travel and the answer to the problem is going to come from this laboratory. Now take your choice!"
Mars glared at Bronsen and seethed inwardly but swung back to his work table. His right leg twitched convulsively, forcing him into a stumbling limp and he silently cursed the fate that had brought him to such a lowly existance. Him! Joc Kenton! Member of the first expedition to land on Mars and successfully return to Earth. And what was he now? Just a second rate design consultant working in a laboratory on the moon. His water blue eyes clouded in his flood of self pity. How beautiful it had been out there ... all blackness, all majesty, the throbbing power of the rockets, the thrill of unknown adventures in the void. His rickety old heart beat faster with remembering. The scorching desolateness of Mars was something he would never forget. Even now he could see the miles of heat-drenched land, the thick red powder that covered the planet's crust, the stretching reaches of nothing but a barren, dead world. And then—the accident. Sure, it was just an accident. How could he know that the port lid was going to break its magnetic field and slam down upon him? It had though, and he had returned an honored man, praised for his self-sacrificing adventure, then pitied because he would spend the rest of his life a crippled man. He twisted his thin, blue-veined hands together, those hands that had piloted a glittering rocket through space, those hands that had sifted through the sands of an alien world, those hands that now were white and fragile, working over drawings and plans for other ships. Gone were the dreams, and with their going came the bitterness.
He felt his anger melting in his own self pity, decided not to brush away the tears that gathered in his eyes and turned to his board, staring at it through blurred vision.
"Bong! End of round five. Just wait around a minute folks, next round coming up." Vern Webber peered cautiously around the door as if expecting something to fly at him, then jumped into the room. His youthful face broke into a broad grin as he bowed before the chief designer. "Oh great and noble Mr. Bronsen Corbow. Is it safe for your lowly servant to approach these hallowed halls in answer to your summons? Mine is not to reason why—but I'd still like to leave here with my head on my shoulders."
Bronsen found himself smiling at his young assistant. Vern, although he was twenty-four, had the spirit and air of a teenager and usually succeeded in keeping the lab in a state of high humor. The tenseness of the argument with Mars dispelled itself and Bronsen relaxed.
"Get word to the men that we are having a special meeting this afternoon, in the conference room. We're going to blow the lid right off the present concepts of space travel and really give those people out there something that will make their eyes bulge. I'll tell you more about it this afternoon."
"Aye, aye, sir!" Vern clicked his heels, gave an exaggerated salute and was gone.
Bronsen glanced in returning annoyance at the snort of disgust that issued from Mars' corner. That old fool and his rockets, he thought were things of the past. There was only the future now. New ideas, new methods, new successes. Why couldn't Mars see that? And yet, Bronsen himself felt a tiny pulsing of doubt. He cursed himself for that tinge of self-distrust, but could do nothing about it. He was brilliant, he was a master of design and he knew space flight as well as he knew the shape, workings and complexities of the pencil he twirled in his hands. But what if he wasn't right? What if his new theory was a flop—and with it a waste of money, time and human lives?