He whipped out a check book. He adjusted his glasses. Primly, he wrote a check and extended it with a jabbing motion, holding it for perhaps thirty seconds before Beecher's crestfallen face turned toward his daughter. Fayette was looking with intense interest at the check.
"Why not? Mr. Straley, like you, we're idealists. Money means hardly anything. I think you've made a deal!"
Beecher stowed the check in his wallet with satisfaction. "Now we'll get busy. Of course, we'll have to have a drawing account. We'll have to discuss details, such as the number of settlers to be transported so I can buy or charter the proper type of space ship. There's the matter of building supplies to be bought—grain seeds—food—a thousand details which you can leave entirely in our hands, Mr. Straley!
"And while we're at it, I'd like to shake your hand! It's very few people who'd endanger their own lives to further the progress of mankind!"
The experience left Unterzuyder weak. He looked appealingly at Fayette. "I wonder if a glass of water—" he said feebly.
Hurriedly she disappeared to the apartment kitchen. Unterzuyder slumped lower in the seat, breathing hard.
"Maybe," he told Beecher helplessly, "a shot of whiskey would do the trick better."
"Sure thing!" Beecher went after his daughter. As soon as they were both out of the room, Unterzuyder got up and pulled open the drawer containing Tertium Organum, A Key To The Enigmas Of The World. Quickly he unfolded the chart in the back of the book. The map should be there.
It wasn't.
He slapped the drawer shut, sank feebly back to his seat. The Beechers were gone an inordinately long time. He thought he heard them whispering in the kitchen. Then Beecher lunged back into the room bearing a jigger of no doubt cheap rye. Unterzuyder gulped it down and put the glass to one side.