“Thank you, sir,” Jason said. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Dickenson barked. “This isn’t the sort of thing one says thank you for. The first thing to be said about this job is that it’s strictly a matter of volunteering. You don’t have to take it if you feel disinclined. If you refuse, the fact won’t be noted in your records. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir.” His hands were still lightly clasped over his knee.

“The second thing is this—a whole lot of time, money and thought has been spent preparing this project and, therefore, if you know any reason why you might be unsuited to carry out your part, you must refuse the job. That’s an order. It’s the only order I shall give you in connection with this business. Now,” he continued, lifting the desk phone, “not to prolong the mystery, I’ll take you to see the project, rather than just talk about it—Hello!” he barked into the telephone, “Get me Admiral Hayes… Hello, Hayes, I’ve got Jason here. I’m taking him down to the hangar to show him round. Like to meet me there?… Good!”

He cradled the phone. “Come along,” he said.

The old man loped out of the room like a tiger. Jason, less acclimatised to Moon gravity, followed him more cautiously.

They went a good way along the main corridor then descended to a lower level by sliding down a pole. They passed into a huge ship-servicing hangar. Row upon row of scout ships, types Jason had come to know out in space, stood in lines. Mechanics swarmed over them. The place was full of the noise of riveting and the sizzle and snap of electric welding arcs. As Jason looked around an overalled man pushed past, carrying on his shoulder a complete motor assembly, a load which back on Earth he could never have lifted off the ground.