He wondered why he had been thinking so much, lately, about the Auburn Bomb.  He’d questioned, at times, indignantly, of course, whether Russia had launched it—­but it wasn’t until tonight, until he had heard what Pitov had had to say, that he seriously doubted it.  Pitov wouldn’t lie about it, and Pitov would have been in a position to have known the truth, if the missile had been launched from Russia.  Then he stopped thinking about what was water—­or blood—­a long time over the dam.

The special policeman at the entrance to the launching site reminded them that they were both smoking; when they extinguished, respectively, their cigarette and pipe, he waved the jeep on and went back to his argument with a carload of tourists who wanted to get a good view of the launching.

“There, now, Lee; do you need anything else to convince you that this isn’t a weapon project?” Pitov asked.

“No, now that you mention it.  I don’t.  You know, I don’t believe I’ve had to show an identity card the whole time I’ve been here.”

“I don’t believe I have an identity card,” Pitov said.  “Think of that.”

The lights blazed everywhere around them, but mostly about the rocket that towered above everything else, so thick that it seemed squat.  The gantry-cranes had been hauled away, now, and it stood alone, but it was still wreathed in thick electric cables.  They were pouring enough current into that thing to light half the street-lights in Buenos Aires; when the cables were blown free by separation charges at the blastoff, the generators powered by the rocket-engines had better be able to take over, because if the magnetic field collapsed and that fifty-kilo chunk of negative-proton matter came in contact with natural positive-proton matter, an old-fashioned H-bomb would be a firecracker to what would happen.  Just one hundred kilos of pure, two-hundred proof Mc2.

The driver took them around the rocket, dodging assorted trucks and mobile machinery that were being hurried out of the way.  The countdown was just beyond two hours five minutes.  The jeep stopped at the edge of a crowd around three more trucks, and Doctor Eugenio Galvez, the director of the Institute, left the crowd and approached at an awkward half-run as they got down.

“Is everything checked, gentlemen?” he wanted to know.

“It was this afternoon at 1730,” Pitov told him.  “And nobody’s been burning my telephone to report anything different.  Are the balloons and the drone planes ready?”

“The Air Force just finished checking; they’re ready.  Captain Urquiola flew one of the planes over the course and made a guidance-tape; that’s been duplicated and all the planes are equipped with copies.”

“How’s the wind?” Richardson asked.

“Still steady.  We won’t have any trouble about fallout or with the balloons.”

“Then we’d better go back to the bunker and make sure everybody there is on the job.”