Part 3 (1/2)

”I know, Rog,” the man said, aware of a rising flood of self-condemnation. ”Go on, son. About the rocket. What kind of fuel did you use?”

”Oh, nothing special. It had a liquid bi-propellant motor. We used ethanol and liquid oxygen. Pretty old-fas.h.i.+oned. But we didn't know how to get hold of the fancier stuff, and didn't have any way of synthesizing it. Then, at the last minute, we found that one of the valves feeding into the nozzle was clogged up. That's why we were late to cla.s.s.”

”Couldn't that have been dangerous?” Duran asked, and realized at once that he had said the wrong thing.

The boy merely shrugged.

”Well, it must have been a pretty good machine if it flew sixty miles and hit its target,” Duran went on.

”Oh, we had it radio-controlled, with a midget T.V. transmitter mounted in it. Gra.s.so took care of that. He did a terrific job. Of course, it was pretty expensive.”

He glanced at his father tentatively for a moment, then bent his gaze to the cigarette.

”I don't have my car any more. But I guess I won't be needing it now.”

There was a cautious knock on the door.

”Listen, Rog,” Duran began, ”I'll try to get to see you tomorrow before I leave. Remember that your mother and I are both on your side, without qualification. You've done a pretty terrible thing, of course.

But I have to admit, at the same time, that I'm really rather proud of you. Does that make sense?”

”Sure,” said Roger huskily, ”I guess so.”

The flight home was a quiet one. Duran found himself with many thoughts to think, not the least of which was what his wife's reaction would be. The difficulty lay in the fact that their married life had been too easy, too free of tragedy, to enable him to foresee her response. But life would not be quite the same now, even if Roger escaped the more concrete forms of punishment. And perhaps it would be the most difficult for Ernest, who would forever be expected either to live up to or down to his older brother's reputation. When all poor Ernest seemed to want these days was to play the saxophone.

And then there was his own political future to consider. This would certainly not help it. But perhaps the affair would be forgotten in the next three years. After all, it might have been far worse. It might have happened in a campaign year. This way he still had a fighting chance. Three sessions with a good record might overbalance the loss in public confidence this would incur. And then he thought of the Mars colony mess and winced.

Telling his wife about the matter was not nearly so difficult as the senator had feared. She had been ready for news of a crime of pa.s.sion, or at least of armed robbery. What her husband had to relate stunned her at first. But once she had ridden out the shock, she recovered quickly.

”You don't have to go tonight, Molly,” Duran told her.

”You think it might look better if I didn't?” she asked gently.

”That wasn't what I was getting at,” he said. He thought it over for a moment, then added, ”No, I don't. In fact, I think it would look better if we both went to the Governor's. Roger is not a juvenile delinquent. That, I believe, is understood. If we must accept some of the responsibility for what he did today, then let's do so gracefully.

Were you to stay home tonight, it might appear to some that you had reason to be ashamed of the business, which you don't.”

”It might also look as if I were afraid that Ernest might do something similar, as if I felt I had to watch him,” she said. ”Oh, people can be so ridiculous! Why wasn't Millie Gorton's boy in on it?”

Duran smiled at the idea of the Governor's tubby, obtuse son involved in the construction of anything more demanding than a paper glider.

The Governor's mansion, a century old edifice typifying the moribund tendency to confuse dignity with discomfort, was teeming with professional and political personages when the Durans arrived. The dinner went off routinely, with no overt references made to the missile matter. However, the senator noticed that no one inquired into the health and happiness of his two sons, so that he presumed word had got around.

It was not until after dinner, when he had seated himself alone in a corner of the luxurious old living room, a B and B in one hand and a cigar in the other, that his host approached him.

”Evenin', Vance. Sure glad you could make it,” exclaimed the familiarly jovial voice of Governor Will Gorton.

Duran sat down his drink and took the Governor's plump hand, shaking it vigorously. Then the senator observed the intense youngish face of Fritz Ambly, who had followed the Governor.

”Guess you know Fritz,” Gorton went on, seating himself next to Duran.