Trade secret

“Maybe I could help,” said Sam. “There’s not much doing over my way.”

“That would be swell, but I don’t want to take you away from your own show.”

“Ah, it’s nothing. People don’t want to buy a mere rocket-firing jet plane today, anyway.”

“All right. Just write down the people’s orders and take their deposits while I keep the ships going.”

The show closed at eleven that night. By then Sam was slightly staggered at the sum of the deposits he had taken in for Mart, and by the magnitude of the orders waiting to be filled. He multiplied that by the four days of the show gone by, and added the sum for the remaining five. He wiped his brow and looked glumly across the lobby to the deserted Samar Toy Town, stacked high with rocket-firing jet planes.

He turned to Mart, who was straightening up the last of the rockets on the counter. “I've been looking up some dope about you, Doc,” he said. "You’re Dr. Martin Nagle, lately of West Coast University, and more recently of ONR. You have within the past six months set up an office as Basic Research Consultants, in partnership with one Dr. Kenneth Berkeley, psychologist. You don’t own a toy factory, and have never been near one as far as I was able to find out. Now, your business is certainly your own, Doc, but I sure am interested in what you intend to do with orders for” — he glanced down at the paper on which he had done a little computing — “one million, four hundred and eighty-six thousand, one hundred and nineteen Nagle Rockets.”

Mart straightened soberly. “It just so happens, Sam, that I have also done a little checking on you. I discover that the Samar Toy Plant is probably the best equipped and most modern plant of its kind in the country for producing toys of the complexity of my little rocket. It is also financially sound and respected in the industry. I’m sorry that people aren’t buying rocket-firing jet fighters this season, but it seems to me that a little expansion could convert the Samar plant to production of Nagle Rockets with profit to both of us. In short, the patents on the rockets are available for licensing to interested parties. And the contracts you have in your hand are for sale.”

“I’m an interested party, Doc,” said Sam. “I don’t mind telling you that we counted on making it this year. We thought we had the merchandise that would do it. And we would have, if it hadn’t been for you. No hard feelings, you understand, that’s all part of the racket. How about a cup of coffee while we see if we can make a deal?”

Mart nodded. “Let me finish here. I think we can come to an agreement — but you should know, right from the start, that there is likely to be a rather large amount of contention stirred up by the appearance of the Nagle Rocket. It probably won’t take very long, either.”

It didn’t. The newsmen, after making routine reports on the toy show, came back for a second look at the phenomenal Nagle Rocket. Science editors checked the basic patents on the toy, and for one day it made the front pages across the country. That same afternoon, Martin Nagle got the call he had been expecting from Washington. Kenneth Berkeley relayed it from their offices in Basic Research Consultants.

“As predicted,” said Berk, “Keyes wants to have some words with you. You probably ought to go down tonight and see him first thing in the morning.”

“Was he sore?”

“He would have been happier if I’d admitted robbing Fort Knox instead of telling him that the stories about the Nagle Rocket are true. He’s going to shut us down and throw us behind bars for the rest of our lives — unless you can convince him we are innocent of national treachery.”

“Maybe you ought to go instead. Or at least go with me. You knew him first. You persuaded him to open Project Levitation.”

“No. He wants to see you. You’re the physicist and he understands your language far better than mine, even though he did co-operate on Levitation. It’s up to you, Mart.”

“All right. I’ll get started. We knew this was coming. The sooner it’s over, the better.”

“What about the booth? Shall I come down tomorrow?”

“No. Sam is here. It’s practically his baby, anyway, since he’s closed his own display and is working with me on conversion of his place to produce our rockets. I’ll come over to the office on the way.”

It was a gray Washington morning when Mart got off the train and took a taxi for the Office of National Research. As he reached the building, marked by self-conscious newness, he had a moment of doubt about the wisdom of the thing he was doing. He had to have the trust and support of Keyes and other men like him, and now he was close to the thin edge of renunciation of all such trust.

He went directly to Keyes’ office and the secretary kept him only a moment before ushering him in. Keyes had obviously been waiting. The director’s face was dull and colorless as he indicated a chair with abruptness bordering on the uncivil.