Reaching For The Moon

                           By S. A. LOMBINO

              It was no longer a question of theory, but
                of money. Man could reach the moon, if
            Saunders could persuade someone to finance him.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
               Science Fiction Quarterly November 1951.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The laboratory was brightly lit, and four men in business suits
surrounded the large table. They stared down at the blueprints on the
table, some scratching their heads, others rubbing their chins in
speculation. The thin man in gray tweeds eyed them cautiously, his
breath coming in short, anxious rushes.

The big man at the head of the table adjusted his eyeglasses, his hand
lingering on the rim for a second. Then he cleared his throat and said,
"It won't work, Dr. Saunders."

The little man in gray tweeds darted impatient eyes at the man who had
just spoken. "Why won't it work? Why not?"

"It can't be done," the big man stated simply. "Maybe sometime in the
future, but certainly not now."

Saunders stretched a bony hand out from the cuff of his tweeds. "It
can be done," he said, slapping that hand on the table. "It's all
here. You've just seen it; you've studied it. Damn it, this isn't a
fly-by-night affair! I've worked on these plans for more than eight
years. I _know_ it will work."

A man in blue serge shrugged and said, "I'm afraid Bragg is right,
Dr. Saunders." He tugged at his collar, the fat hanging in loose folds
around his neck.

Saunders turned to eye the newcomer. "You agree?" he asked defiantly.
"Even after studying my work? You agree that my proposed rocket
couldn't possibly reach the Moon?"

"It might," the man in blue serge admitted, "but we can't speculate
on a thing of this nature. After all, Dr. Saunders, there'll be money
involved and...."

"Money!" Saunders snorted in disgust. "Is that all you're worried
about? You're one of the richest men on Earth, Mr. Peterson. How can
you let money stand in the way of what may well be man's greatest
achievement?"

Bragg spoke again, peering from behind the thick lenses of his
eyeglasses. "Peterson is right; this thing would cost millions--more
than any of us would be willing to risk. We appreciate your considering
us, but...."

Saunders cut in sharply, "Does that go for all of you? Is Mr. Bragg
speaking for all of you?"

A heavy silence crowded into the room. Saunders confronted Peterson
again.

"He speaks for me," Peterson said.

"And you, Mr. Thorpe?" Saunders asked.

"Yes, yes, I'm inclined to agree," a balding man in glen plaid
announced.

"Mr. Slade?" Saunders turned to a weasel-like man dressed in solemn
black.

Slade nodded, his face chalky white against the black of his garb.

"I've asked you four men because you were probably the richest men
on Earth. I've asked you because I thought perhaps you would see the
significance of such a project. To reach the Moon." Saunders' eyes
gleamed with an intense light. "To reach the Moon."

"And when we reach it?" Peterson asked. "Then what?"

"Unlimited space," Saunders answered with feeling. "New worlds, worlds
beyond the imagination of man. The Moon is only the first step, the
experimental step. From there, Mars ... or Venus ... or a new solar
system."

       *       *       *       *       *

Bragg said, "Rubbish. Even if this should work--I'm not at all
convinced it will, but even if it should--what's on the Moon for us?
Bare crags and lonely craters. Cold, bleak atmosphere. Nothing."

"Nothing that would bring in money, true," Saunders said. "But look at
Copernicus and Galileo. Look at Pasteur and Edison and Curie. Look
at ... oh, I could go on all night. What these men contributed to
mankind can never be measured in terms of gold or silver. Can't you see
that?"

"Who wants to go to the Moon, anyway?" Thorpe asked, passing a hand
over his bald head. "We've got troubles of our own right here on
Earth. Plenty to settle right here, man. Plenty. In a little while
perhaps. Sometime in the future. Twenty, twenty-five years. But now,
unthinkable."

"We've been saying that too long," Saunders snapped. "Now is the time!
Not twenty or twenty-five years from now, but _right_ now! Science has
given us the means; it's up to us to take the opportunity and use it."

"It couldn't be done profitably," Peterson said drily.

"Profitably," Saunders said bitterly. "Are your wars profitable?" he
suddenly shouted, bringing his bony fist crashing to the table top.

"Let's not get violent," Slade said. It was the first thing he'd said
all night. Saunders somehow had the feeling that a corpse had spoken.

"Exactly," he said, "Let's not get violent; let's spend some of the
money that's been buying munitions and lives. Instead of razing cities
to the ground, let's go up into the skies. Let's spend that money for
a project that's worthwhile. For once, forget the profit and think of
the meaning to mankind." He paused and his voice grew lower. "We've
been ravaged by too many wars, gentleman. Can't we stop this useless
butchery and devote our time and energy to something constructive?
Can't we? I know my rocket will work. It's scientifically sound. I
know, too, that I can get a crew of scientists and technicians to take
it to the Moon and back. All I need is the money and a little time.
Just a little time."

"There's a war going on, Saunders," Bragg reminded him. He had lit
a cigar with a gold lighter and was sitting now, puffing leisurely,
blowing smoke at the ceiling.

"I know," Saunders said. "Two wars in the past thirty years and now
another one. But consider this a moment. A trip to the Moon would
probably end all hostilities on Earth. It would probably unify this
planet as no other force has ever done. It will galvanize humanity into
constructive action. It will open new vistas that cannot possibly admit
plans for war."

       *       *       *       *       *

Peterson yawned openly. "Mmmm. I must say you're an idealist, Saunders.
I doubt very much if anything short of a trip to the Sun would unify
the people of Earth." He chuckled a little at this and looked to the
others for approval.

"That's right," Bragg agreed. "There'll always be wars, Saunders; the
Earth is overpopulated, always will be."

"More reason to find new worlds," Saunders said tiredly.

"The only solution is war," Bragg insisted. "Survival of the fittest.
Forget your crazy ideas about new worlds. There's plenty of room right
here ... for the people who win."

"And suppose we lose this time?" Saunders asked.

"We'll never lose," Bragg said with certainty.

Slade smiled a thin, wry smile. "Exactly, Bragg," he said. "As for me,
whenever people are ready to fight, I'll be ready to supply them with
the goods they'll need. In the meantime, the Moon can wait."

"A year, maybe two," Saunders pleaded, "and the Universe will be open
to us. Think of it, think of it...." Again his eyes lit with intense
ardor.

"You think of it," Bragg said, "I'm going home."

The other men nodded and began bustling into their overcoats. Saunders
stood by helplessly, feeling his last ounce of strength seep from his
body.

"Nice of you to think of us," Thorpe said cheerily. "Business is
business, though."

"Yes," Saunders said quietly.

"If you can figure a way to put a warhead on that rocket of yours,"
Slade suggested.

"Not a bad idea," Bragg admitted.

"Well, Saunders," Peterson said, "we've got to be running. No hard
feelings, of course; in fact, I wish you lots of luck." He chuckled
again and opened the door. "Good night."

The rest of the men filed out after him, nodding their farewells.
Saunders watched them through the window of his laboratory, watched
chauffeurs open the doors to long limousines, watched tail lights
disappear into the blackness of the night, little red pin-points
emphasizing his failure.

He walked back to the table and sat, cradling his head in his arms,
leaning on the blueprints of his ship.

_All I needed was money_, he thought, _money and a little time. A year
or two at the most. A year or two._

Slowly he rose and brushed a thin hand over his wet eyes. There was
work to be done, and tomorrow was another day. He walked to the door
leading to his inner laboratory and paused. It was past midnight, and
being a punctilious person, Saunders ripped the day's page from the
calendar, exposing the new day to view. The new day was September 21st,
the year 3951.

He snapped off the lights and stepped quickly into the other room.