"That would be nice."
Joshua had little to say during the meal, and Myra was quiet also—adjusting herself, as she had always done, to his mood. Finally, she said, "That will be all, Bertha. Leave the coffee pot."
The maid left. A slight chill was coming in off the desert. Joshua shivered and said, "We're through, Myra."
"Through? I don't understand."
"The Moon trip. I can't swing it. The money's run out. There's no place I can raise another dime."
"But you've worked so hard—and so long! And you are so close to success."
"We've made a lot of progress, but the rocket isn't ready yet. Now it's too late."
They were silent for a time. Then Myra said, "In a way, I'm glad. You should have stopped long ago. You aren't strong enough to stand this pace forever. Now we can go away—get a small place somewhere. That Moon rocket was killing you, Joshua."
Joshua pondered the point. "Killing me? No, I don't think so. I think it has been keeping me alive."
"Don't say that, dear! You make it sound so—so brutal! Year in and year out. Fighting disappointment—failure. Aging before my eyes while I sit here night after night!"