from a
commercial standpoint. The factory was turning out atomic engines at
almost production-line rates, and civilians could easily get them for
private use--so long as they operated them at low speeds and within the
atmosphere of Earth.

That last thought drew a long secret laugh from Sam Meecham. At low
speeds. The government considered anything above a 50 CT as high speed.
And here he was with a secret that could enable him to travel at--who
knows what speeds? He could give it to the government later, but right
now he had his own use for it.

Dorothy would prove an obstacle, however. She always was an obstacle,
and there was no reason to assume she wouldn't be one now. And he was
right about that. The following payday, when he took his check and
splurged it on an atomic engine, Dorothy was madder than a Uranium pile
approaching critical mass.

"Here I scrimp and save on that measly paycheck you bring home," she
wailed, "and you go out and buy luxuries we don't need if we could
afford them. Look at this dress! It's old--all my clothes are old. And
you know why? You want to know why?"

Sam Meecham already knew why. It was because as a manager of his
financial affairs Dorothy was a flop. Often he had wanted to tell her
so, but the more times he attempted to open his mouth the louder she had
wailed. It was a lot easier just to let her explode and then fizzle out.
Even now he had the desire to shout at her to see what would happen. But
her shrieks made him grow sullen and unsure of himself. Perhaps he _had_
wasted the money. After all, the engine they had in their outdated model
rocket was good for a few years more. But for a long trip through
space--it would never do.

The explosion was over and she was merely sizzling. She had folded her
arms resolutely, determined that he should cancel the order for the
engine immediately.

Sam Meecham felt a wave of helplessness surge over him. He felt lost and
bewildered. Perhaps she was right; maybe it _was_ foolish. Here he was:
Sam Meecham, thirty-five, whose mediocre living was made attaching two
wires to two terminals day after day, week after week--a man who
suddenly saw a pointer go unexpectedly beyond the fifty mark, and who
immediately began having delusions of grandeur. He was a dreamer--but
dreams and reality were two different things, and sometimes he confused
them. He shook his head, feeling like a fool.

"Well?" Dorothy's face was before him, determined, dema