Prelude to Space by Arthur C. Clarke Page A

him tomorrow at extension something-or-other. Know who he was?”
    Matthews’s eyes twinkled.
    “You thought he was another journalist, did you? I hope you remembered my warning.”
    “Yes,” said Dirk proudly. “I never told him a thing. Though it wouldn’t have mattered,
     would it?”
    Matthews pushed him into the cab and slammed the door. He leaned through the window
     for his parting words.
    “No, it certainly wouldn’t,” he said. “That was only Professor Maxton, the Deputy
     Director-General. Go home and sleep it off!”

Two
    Dirk managed to arrive at the office in time for lunch—a meal which, he noticed, did
     not seem very popular. He had never seen so few customers in the canteen before.
    When he rang up Extension 3 and introduced himself sheepishly, Professor Maxton seemed
     glad to hear him and invited him round at once. He found the Deputy D.-G. in the next
     office to Sir Robert Derwent, almost surrounded with packing cases—holding, he explained,
     special test gear which was to be flown to Australia at once. Their conversation was
     frequently interrupted by the Professor’s orders and counter-orders to his perspiring
     assistants as they checked through their equipment.
    “I’m sorry if I seemed a bit offhand last night,” said Dirk apologetically. “The fact
     is, I wasn’t quite myself.”
    “I gathered that,” said Maxton dryly. “After all, you had several hours’ start on
     me! Hi, you dope, don’t carry that recorder upside down! Sorry, Alexson, I didn’t
     mean you.”
    He paused for breath.
    “This is an infernal business—you never know what you’ll want and you can be pretty
     sure that in the end the most important stuff will get left behind.”
    “What’s it all for?” asked Dirk, quite overcome by the arrays of glittering equipment
     and the sight of more radio tubes than he had ever seen before at any one time in
     his life.
    “Post-mortem gear,” said Maxton succinctly. “‘Alpha’s’ main instrument readings are
     telemetered back to Earth. If anything goes wrong, at least we’ll know what happened.”
    “This isn’t very cheerful talk after last night’s gaiety.”
    “No, but it’s practical talk and may save millions of dollars, as well as a good many
     lives. I’ve heard all about your project in the States, and thought it was a very
     interesting idea. Who started it?”
    “The Rockefeller Foundation—History and Records Division.”
    “I’m glad the historians have finally realized that science does play quite a part
     in shaping the world. When I was a kid their textbooks were nothing but military primers.
     Then the economic determinists held the field—until the neo-Freudians routed them
     with great slaughter. We’ve only just got that lot under control—so let’s hope we’re
     going to get a balanced view at last.”
    “That’s exactly what I’m aiming at,” said Dirk. “I realize that all sorts of motives
     must have inspired the man who founded Interplanetary. I want to unravel and analyze
     them as far as possible. On the factual side, I’ve been supplied with everything I
     want by Matthews.”
    “Matthews? Oh, the chap from Public Relations. They think they run the place—don’t
     believe everything they tell you, especially about us.”
    Dirk laughed.
    “I thought that Interplanetary was all one big, happy family!”
    “On the whole we get along pretty well, especially at the top. At least, we present
     a united front to the outside world. As a class, I think scientists work together
     better than any other, especially when they have a common goal. But you always have
     clashing personalities, and there seems an inevitable rivalry between the technical
     and the non-technical grades. Sometimes it’s just good-natured fun, but often there’s
     a certain amount of bitterness behind it.”
    While Maxon was speaking, Dirk had been studying him carefully. His first impression
     had been confirmed. The D.D.-G. was not