Joe was puzzled. His face showed it.
“He can try to do the sabotage,” said the Major precisely, “or he can arrange to be caught trying to do it. If he’s caught—he tried; and the blackmail threat is no threat at all so long as he keeps his mouth shut. Which he does. And—ah—you would be surprised how often a man who wasn’t born in the United States would rather go to prison for sabotage than commit it—here.”
Joe blinked.
“If your friend Braun is caught,” said the Major, “he will be punished. Severely. Officially. But privately, someone will—ah—mention this tip and say ‘thanks.’ And he’ll be told that he will be released from prison just as soon as he thinks it’s safe. And he will be. That’s all.”
He turned to his papers. Joe went out. On the way to meet the pilot who’d check on his tip, he thought things over. He began to feel a sort of formless but very definite pride. He wasn’t quite sure what he was proud of, but it had something to do with being part of a country toward which men of wholly different upbringing could feel deep loyalty. If a man who was threatened unless he turned traitor, a man who might not even be a citizen, arranged to be caught and punished for an apparent crime against a country rather than commit it—that wasn’t bad. There can be a lot of things wrong with a nation, but if somebody from another one entirely can come to feel that kind of loyalty toward it—well—it’s not too bad a country to belong to.
Joe had a security guard with him this time, instead of Sally, as he went across the vast, arc-lit interior of the Shed and past the shimmering growing monster that was the Platform. He went all the way to the great swinging doors that let in materials trucks. And there were guards there, and they checked each driver very carefully before they admitted his truck. But somehow it wasn’t irritating. It wasn’t scornful suspicion. There’d be snide and snappy characters in the Security force, of course, swaggering and throwing their weight about. But even they were guarding something that men—some men—were willing to throw away their lives for.
Joe and his guard reached one of the huge entrances as a ten-wheeler truck came in with a load of shining metal plates. Joe’s escort went through the opening with him and they waited outside. The sun had barely risen. It looked huge but very far away, and Joe suddenly realized why just this spot had been chosen for the building of the Platform.
The ground was flat. All the way to the eastern horizon there wasn’t even a minor hillock rising above the plain. It was bare, arid, sun-scorched desert. It was featureless save for sage and mesquite and tall thin stalks of yucca. But it was flat. It could be a runway. It was a perfect place for the Platform to start from. The Platform shouldn’t touch ground at all, after it was out of the Shed, but at least it wouldn’t run into any obstacles on its way toward the horizon.
A light plane came careening around the great curved outer surface of the Shed. It landed and taxied up to the door. It swung smartly around and its side door opened. A bandaged hand waved at Joe. He climbed in. The pilot of this light, flimsy plane was the co-pilot of the transport of yesterday. He was the man Joe had helped to dump cargo.
Joe climbed in and settled himself. The small motor pop-popped valiantly, the plane rushed forward over hard-packed desert earth, and went swaying up into the air.