abor to build the reflector is what we haven't got," said Joe Walton.
"It would take months, maybe a whole year, for us to set up only the
framework for a 250-foot bowl!"

"Getting the lumber alone would be a community project," said Al.

"That's what it's going to be," Ken answered. "Johnson is behind us.
He'll give us anything we want, if he knows where to get it. I don't
think there's any question of his authorizing the construction by the
men here."

There was nothing else they could think of to stand in the way of the
project.

It had been two days since the fire, but Ken's father still seemed
stunned by it. After dinner, he sat in his old chair where he used to
read, but he did not read now. He sat for hours, staring at the opposite
corner of the room.

Professor Larsen seemed locked in a similar state of shock. In addition
to his wife's death, this destruction of their entire scientific
facilities seemed a final blow from which he could not recover.

Ken recognized, too, that there was a burden these men had carried that
no one else knew. That was the burden of top-level responsibility for a
major portion of the world's effort against the "invader." It was an
Atlas-like burden that men could not carry without suffering its
effects.

Ken approached them that evening, after he and Maria had helped his
mother with her chores and had gathered snow to melt overnight for their
next day's water supply.

"Dad," Ken said, "I've been wondering when we could get started on the
project again. The fellows in the club are all ready to go. I guess most
everyone else is, too."

His father looked as if Ken had just uttered something absolutely
unintelligible. "Start!" he cried. "Start what? How can we start
anything? There's nothing left to work with, absolutely nothing!"

Ken hesitated, an ache in his heart at the defeat he saw in his father's
eyes. He held out his hands. "We've got these," he said. He tapped the
side of his head. "And this."

Professor Maddox's face seemed to relax a trifle. He looked at his son
with a faint suggestion of a smile on his lips. "Yes? What do you
propose to do with them?"

Carefully, then, Ken outlined the results of his inventory. "Art can
build up to six engines, if we need them. We've got plenty of electronic
parts, and tubes big enough to put 60 or 70 kilowatts of supersonic
energy in a beam. We don't want to build a little reflector again; we
want to put up a full-scale instru