There was, of course, no sound at all on the moon itself.  There was no air to carry it.  But from each plastic helmet a six-inch antenna projected straight upward, and the microwaves of suit-talkies made a jumble of slightly metallic sounds in the headphones of each suit.

As soon as Cochrane got out of the jeep’s air-lock and was recognized, Dabney said agitatedly: 

“Mr. Cochrane!  Mr. Cochrane!  I have to discuss something with you!  It is of the utmost importance!  Will you come into the laboratory?”

Cochrane helped Babs to the ground and made his way to the airlock in the dust-heap against the cliff.  He went in, with two other space-suited figures who detached themselves from the rest to follow him.  Once inside the odorous, cramped laboratory, Dabney opened his face-plate and began to speak before Cochrane was ready to hear him.  His companion beamed amiably.

“—­and therefore, Mr. Cochrane,” Dabney was saying agitatedly, “I insist that measures be taken to protect my scientific reputation!  If this test should fail, it will militate against the acceptance of my discovery!  I warn you—­and I have my friend Mr. Simms here as witness—­that I will not be responsible for the operation of apparatus made by a subordinate who does not fully comprehend the theory of my discovery!  I will not be involved—­”

Cochrane nodded.  Dabney, of course, didn’t understand the theory of the field he’d bought fame-rights to.  But there was no point in bringing that up.  Johnny Simms beamed at both of them.  He was the swimmer Babs had pointed out in the swimming-pool.  His face was completely unlined and placid, like the face of a college undergraduate.  He had never worried about anything.  He’d never had a care in the world.  He merely listened with placid interest.

“I take it,” said Cochrane, “that you don’t mind the test being made, so long as you don’t have to accept responsibility for its failure—­and so long as you get the credit for its success if it works.  That’s right, isn’t it?”

“If it fails, I am not responsible!” insisted Dabney stridently.  “If it succeeds, it will be because of my discovery.”

Cochrane sighed a little.  This was a shabby business, but Dabney would have convinced himself, by now, that he was the genius he wanted people to believe him.

“Before the test,” said Cochrane gently, “you make a speech.  It will be recorded.  You disclaim the crass and vulgar mechanical details and emphasize that you are like Einstein, dealing in theoretic physics only.  That you are naturally interested in attempts to use your discovery, but your presence is a sign of your interest but not your responsibility.”

“I shall have to think it over—­,” began Dabney nervously.

“You can say,” promised Cochrane, “that if it does not work you will check over what Jones did and tell him why.”

“Y-yes,” said Dabney hesitantly, “I could do that.  But I must think it over first.  You will have to delay—­”