Gorman's eyes snapped open—wide. He opened his mouth to speak. He failed, tightened his throat and tried again. "You came here after what?"
"Money. I'm broke, Lee. I haven't enough to meet my payroll."
"You expect me to bail you out—clean up your debts—put you clear?"
"I came after more than that. Merely bailing me out wouldn't help a bit. I need three hundred thousand to put my rocket in the air."
Gorman collapsed gently back into his chair like a balloon mercifully relieved of some of its content. When he spoke, it was with a slow, controlled viciousness. "I've heard of guts, Joshua. I've heard of gall—plain unmitigated nerve. But this tops anything—why, man, you threw me out! You robbed me! You left me standing in the street with a bookful of names and addresses under my arm—nothing more. Now you come here and ask for money!"
"I'm glad you've done well, Lee. There was nothing personal in what I did. I'm glad you've gone on to even bigger things than we would have achieved together."
"You're glad I've done well! Why, you pious hypocrite! I ought to have you thrown through the window instead of merely ordering you out!"
"There is no reason why I should expect any better treatment, Lee. But I had to come here. You were my last hope. I had to ask."
Joshua turned slowly from the desk. He had taken but three steps when Lee Gorman said, "Wait a minute. I'm curious. Are you really still at it—beating your brains out against that stone wall?"
"It's my dream, Lee. I've got to be the first man to put a rocket on the moon."