“Stubborn chap, that,” the professor commented to Robert. “Can’t say that I blame him, though.”
“Simply a difference in the values we set on our own carcasses,” suggested Robert. “Henry just takes his more seriously than we.”
They laughed. Both, somehow, felt relieved afterward. Henry had furnished a welcome diversion. The former nervous tension was broken.
“Well, so long, old man,” Robert called out the window, as he prepared to close it.
“Give my regards to Saint Peter,” shouted Henry.
“Cheerful cuss,” contributed the professor, as the heavy glass slammed shut.
Robert stopped the gyrostats.
A deep silence reigned within the heavy walls as he examined carefully the delicate machinery upon which so much depended. Then he pulled the lever, setting them in motion again. Their steady purr was a relief from the oppressive silence.
Professor Palmer’s keen eyes followed him as he moved about. Robert’s excitement of the previous minutes was forgotten as he expertly, almost lovingly, ran his eyes over every detail of the perfect, whirring machinery, most of which his father had produced. His throat contracted strangely as his thoughts dwelt for a moment on his beloved parent. His mother he could scarcely remember, for she had died when he was but a baby of three years. But his father had been his constant companion—his pal. What would he not have given to have him standing by him at this moment, on the eve of his triumph, of the realization of his dreams!
Being a shrewd judge of human nature, the professor rightly guessed his thoughts at that moment. A suspicious moisture in Robert’s eyes confirmed his guess.