I think of all the dough in that bank," he
said.

"Yeah," Tiflin snarled softly. "That old coot, Charlie Reynolds'
grandpa, sitting by his vault door. Too obvious, though--here. Maybe in
another bank--in another town. We could get the cash we need. Hell,
though--be cavalier--it's just a thought."

"You damned fool!" Nelsen hissed slowly.

It was harder than ever to like Tiflin for anything at all. But he did
have that terrible, star-reaching desperation. Nelsen had quite a bit of
it, himself. He knew, now.

"Get up to Tech, Tif," he said like an order. "If you have a chance,
tell my math prof I might be a little late..."

That was how Frank Nelsen happened to face J. John Reynolds, who, in a
question of progress, would still approve of galley slaves. Nelsen had
heard jokes like that laughed about, around Jarviston. J. John, by
reputation, was all hard business.

Nelsen got past his secretary.

"Young man--I hope you have something very special to say."

There was a cold, amused challenge in the old man's tone, and an
implication of a moment of casual audience granted generously, amid
mountains of more important affairs.

Nelsen didn't waver. The impulse to do what he was doing had come too
suddenly for nervousness to build up. He hadn't planned what to say, but
his arguments were part of himself.

"Mr. Reynolds--I'm Frank Nelsen, born here in Jarviston. Perhaps you
know me on sight. I believe you are acquainted with Paul Hendricks, and
you must have heard about our group, which is aiming at space, as people
like ourselves are apt to be doing, these days. We've made fair
progress, which proves we're at least earnest, if not dedicated. But
unless we wait and save for years, we've come about as far as we can,
without a loan. Judging from the success of previous earnest groups, and
the development of resources and industries beyond the Earth, we are
sure that we could soon pay you back, with considerable interest."

J. John Reynolds seemed to doze, hardly listening. But at the end his
eyes opened, and sparks of anger--or acid humor--seemed to dance in
them.

"I know very well what sort of poetic tomfoolery you are talking about,
Nelsen," he said. "I wondered how long it would be before one of
you--other than my grandson with his undiluted brass, and knowing me far
too well in one sense, anyway--would have the gall to come here and talk
to me like this. You'd probably be considered a minor, too, in some
stat