There was confusion thrice and four and five times confounded.  Cochrane came in to dispute furiously with Holden whether it was better to have a psychopathic personality on the space-ship or to have a legal battle in the courts.  Cochrane won.  Jones arrived, belligerent, to do battle for technical devices which would cost money.

“Look!” said Cochrane harassedly.  “I’m not trying to boss you!  Don’t come to me for authority!  If you can make that ship take off I’ll be in it, and my neck will be in as much danger as yours.  You buy what will keep my neck as safe as possible, along with yours.  I’m busy raising money and fighting off crackpots and dodging lawsuits and getting supplies!  I’ve got a job that needs three men anyhow.  All I’m hoping is that you get ready to take off before I start cutting out paperdolls.  When can we leave?”

“We?” said Jones suspiciously.  “You’re going?”

“If you think I’ll stay behind and face what’ll happen if this business flops,” Cochrane told him, “you’re crazy!  There are too many people on Earth already.  There’s no room for a man who tried something big and failed!  If this flops I’d rather be a frozen corpse with a happy smile on my face—­I understand that in space one freezes—­than somebody living on assisted survival status on Earth!”

“Oh,” said Jones, mollified.  “How many people are to go?”

“Ask Bill Holden,” Cochrane told him.  “Remember, if you need something, get it.  I’ll try to pay for it.  If we come back with picture-tapes of outer space—­even if we only circumnavigate Mars!—­we’ll have money enough to pay for anything!”

Jones regarded Cochrane with something almost like warmth.

“I like this way of doing business,” he said.

“It’s not business!” protested Cochrane.  “This is getting something done!  By the way.  Have you picked out a destination for us to aim at?” When Jones shook his head, Cochrane said harassedly; “Better get one picked out.  But when we make out our sail-off papers, for destination we’ll say, ‘To the stars.’  A nice line for the news broadcasts.  Oh, yes.  Tell Bill Holden to try to find us a skipper.  An astrogator.  Somebody who can tell us how to get back if we get anywhere we need to get back from.  Is there such a person?”

“I’ve got him,” said Jones.  “He checked the ship for me.  Former moon-rocket pilot.  He’s here in Lunar City.  Thanks!”

He shook hands with Cochrane before he left.  Which for Jones was an expression of overwhelming emotion.  Cochrane turned back to his desk.

“Let’s see ...  That arrangement for cachets on stamps and covers to be taken along and postmarked Outer Space.  Put in a stipulation for extra payment in case we touch on planets and invent postmarks for them ...”

He worked on, while Babs took notes.  Presently he was dictating.  And as he talked, frowning, he took a fountain-pen from his pocket and absently worked the refill-handle.  It made ink exude from the pen-point.  On the moon, the surface tension of the ink was exactly the same as on earth, but the gravity was five-sixths less.  So a drop of ink of really impressive size could be formed before the moon’s weak gravity made it fall.