It was the other's turn to look blank. “Money?” he said.
“That's right. Large quantities of money.”
The Russian said, frowning, “I suppose most citizens in your capitalist countries are interested largely in money. One of your basic failings.”
Driving back to the office, Larry Woolford let it pile up on him.
Ernest Self had been a specialist in solid fuel for rockets. When Larry had questioned Professor Voss that worthy had particularly stressed his indignation at how Professor Goddard, the rocket pioneer, had been treated by his contemporaries. Franklin Nostrand had been employed as a technician on rocket research at Madison Air Laboratories. It was too darn much for coincidence.
And now something else that had been nagging away at the back of his mind suddenly came clear.
Susan Self had said that she and her father had seen the precision dancers at the New Roxy Theater in New York and later the Professor had said they were going to spend the money on chorus girls. Susan had got it wrong. The Rockettes—the precision chorus girls. The Professor had said they were going to spend the money on rockets, and Susan had misunderstood.
But billions of dollars expended on rockets? How? But, above all, to what end?
If he'd only been able to hold onto Susan, or her father; or to Voss or Nostrand, for that matter. Someone to work on. But each had slipped through his fingers.