Trade secret

As Mart left the ONR building, feeling the eyes of Keyes staring at him from the second-floor window, he was not at all sure of the wisdom of their present program. But it had all the qualities of a road full of burned bridges, and uncertainty was futile. Keyes at least would be quiescent for a time. As he had said, an open accusation now would tell the Russians that spaceships with antigravity propulsion were a fact, and Mart’s explanation had thrown him sufficiently off center so that it would take him time to plan any new and definite move. By then it wouldn’t matter —

The sale of the toy rocket was not delayed until Christmas. It was pushed hard as soon as Sam Marvenstein’s refitted plant was able to put it on store counters. At once it was seized upon by the country’s small fry citizens as the successor to all horse and pistol paraphernalia and the pseudo rocket equipment with which they had been kidding themselves. This was the real thing. Re-orders flowed into the plant almost on the heels of the shipments going out.

Within two weeks of initial manufacture Sam Marvenstein was hopelessly behind schedule. He called Mart on the phone. “The toy business is like flowers and fresh vegetables,” he said. “One minute you’re in and the next minute you’re out. One good item and a man can retire. A real blooper and you have to start all over again.”

“What’s the matter?” said Mart. “The rocket is selling, isn’t it?”

“That’s the trouble. It’s selling too well.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We need more factory space. We’re behind far enough on the orders we’ve got now to warrant doubling our floor space. But how long can we sell rockets without reaching the saturation point?

“It looks to me like Christmas would do it. If we turned them out, we could sell a rocket to every kid in the country above crawling age. So suppose we went ahead and increased our floor space with all the necessary jigs and dies — what happens afterwards? Can you give us a new item that will make the expansion worth while, or do you intend to be strictly a one-shot?”

“I won’t be a one-shot,” said Mart, “I’ve been thinking of the same problems. In the spring we'll have another little gadget to follow up the rocket. I think we should acquire the increased space on a rental basis. Tool up to produce all the rockets the trade can stand. We can afford the capital investment and any subsequent loss on it.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” said Sam.

Although every news service in the country had given the Nagle Rocket a brief play, it was Joe Baird, the nightly TV columnist, who continued to pick at the bones of the story as if not satisfied that all the meat was out of it. Mart was never quite sure where Baird got his leads, but he was quite satisfied to see the columnist’s thin face and hear his somewhat squeaky voice announce with its full capacity for insinuation: “What former high-ranking Government scientist is now peddling toys for a living because Uncle’s pay check wasn’t big enough? This same scientist is scheduled shortly to be the subject of a series of investigations regarding his use of certain scientific principles for the production of toys instead of for the essential welfare of our nation. A big ripe, raspberry to the man who might be among the first to take his nation to the Moon — and is content merely to entertain the kids.”

Mart had no idea whether Baird had inside information or whether he was shooting in the dark. At any rate his agitation was encouraging. It promised results.

The office of Nagle and Berkeley, Basic Research Consultants, was not one to attract customers in large numbers, or particularly before hours. But on the morning following Baird’s denunciation Mart came down to open up and found a visitor waiting at the end of the long hall near the locked door of the office. The man was wearing a gray, slightly mashed felt hat and carried a brief case which he rested on the radiator as he looked out the window. Mart gave him a curious glance and fitted the key to the lock. Then he almost closed the door in the stranger’s face as the latter hurried towards the office.

“I beg your pardon! I didn’t know you were looking for our office.”

“You are Dr. Martin Nagle?” the man said.

Mart nodded. “Toymaker extraordinary. Please come in.”

“Very extraordinary, I would say.” The man deposited his hat and offered his hand. “My name is Don Wolfe. I am chief engineer at Apex Aircraft. There are a few things I would like to talk over with you.”

Mart smiled and led the way to his own office. “Please sit down. If you’re here concerning the adaptability of the Nagle Rocket to aircraft propulsion, the answer is no. Not in its present form. And that being what you came to ask about I suppose you have had a long trip for nothing.”