The Fifty-Fourth of July

Matthews climbed to his feet and walked slowly over to the edge of the rocks where the camp was situated. It was on the edge of the desert, and down below sand and sage stretched for miles in the pale moonlight. On either side he could see the flicker of the other campfires, forming a huge circle, many miles in diameter. As he stood watching, his ear unconsciously picked up the rustle of silent footsteps on the trail leading to the nearest campfire away--the guard-line which closed the circle tight. But he was not interested in the guard lines tonight. They were well guarded, no one could get through them. There were half a dozen dead soldiers lying out in the desert to attest to that, soldiers who had tried to break through to the main highway during the past three weeks. What held Matt's interest right now was the huge cyclone-fence enclosure in the center of the circle of fires. Inside the fence he could see the low, flat buildings of the Rocket Development Project, and in the moonlight he could make out the lines of the Ship itself, standing tall and lifeless in the darkness. He watched it for a moment, and his fists clenched.

He whirled back to the fire, lifting the city stranger up by the collar, dragging his face up close to his. "Why do you want to go down there?" he snarled.

Loevy's face was purple, and he gasped for breath. "Because there's no point in letting four hundred innocent men be slaughtered when you can have the Ship without firing a gun. That's why!"

"My but we're noble," Matt snapped. "What do you care how many are killed? Who sent you here in the first place? Where did you get a 'copter to fly over here in?"

Loevy shook himself free, glaring up at the giant standing over him. "I stole a 'copter, if you have to know. And nobody sent me--"

"How did you know we were here?"

"Don't be a fool. The whole country knows you're here. Look, all I want is a chance to talk to Gorham under a truce flag for fifteen minutes. If I don't succeed, you don't lose a thing. What harm can it do?"

Moe Arhelger spat into the fire. "Can't do no harm. And it might just break this open for us, once and for all. Then we could go back home."

"But if he's a spy--he could have word from reinforcements. Maybe the Army's planning a march--"

Loevy snorted. "The Army isn't planning anything. The Army is starving to death. The nearest contingent is in San Diego, and they've got their hands full just scouring the countryside for food. They've got no fuel to come here with even if they felt like it--"

Matt scowled. "He could still be a spy."

Moe Arhelger nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing at the city man. Then he looked up at Matt. "I know. That's why I want him to go down to the Ship. With you along with him."

The trip down the mountainside was slow. It was almost a half an hour before they reached the encampment at the bottom, on a gravel road that led straight out to the Rocket site. The road was piled high with rocks, and four men with old felt hats and plaid shirts sat in jeeps, watching the road for a stir of life.

Matt and Loevy commandeered a jeep, bounced down a gulley to by-pass the road block, and started along the road toward the fenced enclosure. A spotlight picked them up almost immediately, and Loevy hoisted a white shirt up on a pole, waving it to catch the light. Then slowly they drove ahead, until two more spotlights flashed on from the ship, scanning the sage on either side of them, flickering in their faces as they made their way along. Loevy sat tight-lipped, peering ahead into the darkness. Matthews drove silently. He had never been this close to Rocket Number Five before, but rockets were an old story to him. He had worked on Number Three and Number Four during his two years in the Labor Force. He knew quite enough about rockets.

More lights went on as they approached the fence. Inside, off to the left and right were buildings, the storerooms and offices of the Project, and in the center, standing tall, with her lower third enshrouded in scaffolding and canvas, stood the ship--

Rocket Number Five. The last attempt, the straw that broke the camel's back. Four great ships before it, crashing into heaps of rubble, dragging the Earth down with them. And here the fifth, as yet unborn, never to be launched. Matthews made a bitter sound in his throat. When he thought of the horrible fifty-four days just past, he knew that his hate for this Rocket ship and everything it stood for was right. Moe was right, in his fanatical burning hatred of the old world which had struggled blindly to launch its ships, and starved itself to do so. But Moe wanted everything--the ships, the men, the government, everything. Matthews only wanted the ship.

He smiled grimly to himself. The garrison could not hold out much longer. They had no food, and the ring of guerillas surrounding the ship like a tight net would see that they got no food. It had been a long wait--but soon they would struggle out, begging for food and water, leaving the ship standing alone--

To be wrecked, and ripped, and torn into a thousand bitter pieces--

A soldier suddenly appeared in a spotlight inside the huge fence gate, rifle half-raised in his hands. He let out a shout and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. "Halt!"

The jeep's tires screeched. Then Loevy raised the flag again and waved it. "Truce," he called out. "We're unarmed."

"What do you want?"

"We want to talk to the Bulldog."

There was a long pause as a conference was held back in the shadows. Someone in the darkness ran out to join the gate guard. Then there was a grating sound as the lock on the gate snapped open. The gate swung out as five more soldiers encircled it from within, rifles cocked and ready. "Leave the jeep outside. Come in with your hands raised."