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How long the plan had been in incubation I do not know, but Fein, one spring day, broke it to me in crude form. It was necessary that I spend some months in Europe, conducting research work incidental to the scheme. I returned with recorded statements, old newspapers, and photostatic copies of certain documents. There was a brief, quiet interview with that old, bushy-haired Viennese worshipped incontinently by the mob; he was convinced by the evidence I had compiled that it would be wise to assist us.
Fein had drafted the thing, I had rewritten it, and told the astronomer to assume a German accent while reading. The requested contributions poured in. We cleared seven million dollars, and then started to build the spaceship. The virginium that took up most of the money was tin plate; the monoatomic fluorine that gave us our terrific speed was hydrogen.
The take-off was a party for the newsreels: the big, gleaming bullet extravagant with vanes and projections; speeches by the professor; Farley, who was to fly it to Mars, grinning into the cameras. He climbed an outside ladder to the nose of the thing, then dropped into the steering compartment. I screwed down the sound-proof door, smiling as he hammered to be let out.
