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      Death Strikes at 2nd Rocket-club Chief:

       Poisoned on Visit to 1st Victim's Widow

      Post Special Correspondent

       Violent death struck late today at a leader of the American Society for Space Flight, nationwide rocket club, for the second time in less than a month. The first victim was club engineer August Clifton, who committed suicide by shooting in a room next door to a meeting of the club going full blast. Today club secretary-treasurer Joel Friml, 26, was found writhing in pain on the floor of a Cahuenga Canyon bungalow owned by Clifton's attractive blonde widow Lilly, 35. Both bodies were discovered by club engineer Michael Novak. A further bizarre note lies in the fact that on both occasions A.E.C. Security agent J. W. Anheier was on the scene within seconds of the discovery.

       Police Sergeant Herman Alper said Novak and Anheier paid a morning visit to Mrs. Clifton's home and chatted with her and Friml, who had arrived earlier. Friml disappeared into the bedroom, alarming the other guests. They broke into the bedroom by smashing a window and found Friml in convulsions, clutching a two-ounce bottle of a medicine meant for external use. They called a doctor and tried to give milk as an antidote, but according to the physician the victim's throat had been so damaged that it was a hopeless try.

       Friml was taken by ambulance under sedation to Our Lady of Sonora hospital, where no hope was given for his recovery. In the confusion Mrs. Clifton fled the house, apparently in a state of shock, and had not returned by the time the ambulance left.

       Friends could hazard no guess as to the reason for the tragedy. Friml himself, ironically, had just completed auditing the rocket club's books in a vain search for discrepancies that might have explained the Clifton suicide.

      It was bad. Worse was coming.

      CHAPTER XVI.

       Table of Contents

      Novak moved out to the field, bag and baggage, that night and worked himself into a pleasant state of exhaustion. He woke on his camp cot at nine to the put-put of an arriving jalopy. It was a kid named Nearing. He made a beeline for Novak, washing up in a lab sink.

      "Hi, Dr. Novak." He was uncomfortable.

      "Morning. Ready for business?"

      "I guess so. There's something I wanted to ask you about. It's a lot of nonsense, of course. My brother's in the C.B.S. newsroom in L.A., and he was kidding me this morning. He just got in from the night shift and he said there was a rumour about Proto. It came in on some warm-up chatter on their teletype."

      Already? "What did he have to say?"

      "Well, the A.S.F.S.F. was—'linked' is the word, I guess—with some big-time Washington scandal that's going to break. Here." He poked a wad of paper at Novak. "I thought he was making it up. He doesn't believe in space flight and he's a real joker, but he showed me this. He tore it off their teletype."

      Novak unfolded the wad into a long sheet of cheap paper, torn off at the top and bottom.

      Blue nose and a purple goatee.

      Ha ha thats a good one. u know abt Bishop of Birmingham???

      Sure who dont. Ogod three am and three hours to go.

      Look whos bitching. Here its six am and six hours to go. Wish id learned a trade or stayed in the navy.

      What u do in navy???

      Teletype opr. Cant get away from dam ptrs seems as if.

      Min fone

      Who was it???

      Eleanor Roosevelt asking for a date u Nosy Bastrd

      Ha ha Ogod Wotta slo nite. Any nuz ur side???

      Not yet. First cast half hour. Nuzman came in with rumor abt some ur local screwballs to wit Los Angeles Space Flite Club.

      Hey Hey. Nuzriter here got kid brother in club. Wot he say???

      Said strictly Phony Outfit with Wa Tieup Top Admininxxx

      Administration got it finally figures.

      Govt money goes to club and club kix back to govt officials. Sweet racket huh.

      More???

      No more. Min I ask. Says got it fm bennet nuz svc man.

      No more.

      Tnx. Coffe now.

      Welcm. Dont spill it.

      Ha ha u r a wit or maybe i am only half rite.

      Nearing said as Novak looked up from the paper: "Of course Charlie may have punched it out himself on a dead printer just to worry me." He laughed uncomfortably. "Oh, hell. It's just a rumour about a rumour. But I don't like them tossing Proto's name around. She's a good girl." His eye sought the moon ship, gleaming in the morning sun.

      "Yes," Novak said. "Look, Nearing. I'm tightening up the guard schedule and I'm going to be very busy. I'd like to turn the job of handling the guard detail over to you. I'll put you on salary, say fifty a week, if you'll do it."

      "Fifty? Why sure, Dr. Novak. That's about what I'm getting at the shoe store, but the hell with it. When do I start and what do I do?"

      "Start now. I want two guards on duty at all times. Not under twenty-one, either. At night I want one guard at the gate and one patrolling the fence. I want strict identification of all strangers at the gate. I want newspapermen kept out. I want you to find out what kind of no-trespassing signs we're legally required to post and how many—and then post twice as many. I want you to get the huskiest youngsters you can for guards and give them night sticks." He hesitated. "And buy us two shotguns and some shells."

      The boy looked at Novak and then at the Prototype and then at Novak again. "If you think it's necessary," he said quietly. "What kind of shells—bird shot?"

      "Buckshot, Nearing. They're after her."

      "Buckshot it is, Dr. Novak," the shoe clerk said grimly.

      He worked all morning in the machine shop, turning wooden core patterns for the throat liner on the big lathe. Laminated together and rasped smooth, they would be the first step in the actual fabrication of the throat liner. Half a dozen youngsters showed up, and he put them to work routing out the jacket patterns. Some of the engineer-members showed up around noon on their Sunday visits and tried to shop-talk with him. He wouldn't shop-talk.

      At three in the afternoon Amy Stuart was saying to him firmly: "Turn that machine off and have something to eat. Nearing told me you didn't even have breakfast. I've got coffee, bologna on white, cheese on rye—"

      "Why thanks," he said, surprised. He turned off the power and began to eat at a work-bench.

      "Sorry they pulled rough stuff on you," she said.

      "Rough?" he snorted. "That wasn't rough. Rough is what's coming up." Between bites of sandwich he told her about the teletype chatter.

      "It's starting," she said.

      * * * * *

      The next day the dam broke.

      Reporters were storming the gate by mid-morning. In due course a television relay truck arrived and from outside the fence peered at them with telephoto lenses.

      "Find out what it's all about, Nearing," Novak said, looking up from his pattern making.

      Nearing came back with a sheaf of papers. "They talked me into saying I'd bring you written questions."

      "Throw 'em away. Fill me in in twenty seconds or less so I can get back to work."

      "Well, Senator Hoyt's going to make a speech in the Senate today and he's wired advance copies all over hell. And it's been distributed by the news agencies,