"A hundred miles."
"A hun—! You think you'll still find this thing that far away?"
"We'll find out. Can the Prospector travel that far?"
"Sure. If you wait long enough. Its maximum speed is two miles an hour."
"A little better than two days. Let's pick the direction of the flattest and lowest terrain. I don't want to get it up into the mountains."
During the following two days, Jim considered what his next move should be. He had to present his data and evidence to a conference of men who mattered, who could make the necessary decisions. It had to be brought to the attention of the top levels of NASA. The Department of Defense and the Presidential advisors should be in on it, too.
His thoughts came to a stop and he felt more than a little hysterical. Who was he? A third-string chemical researcher on one of dozens of current NASA projects. Who was going to let him call a conference of the nation's brass and instruct them to close down the moon program?
Nobody.
In the Civil Service hierarchy to which he belonged there was absolutely no way on earth by which he could bring his story to the attention of the people who could act on it.
No way at all. But he had to try.