Free One Was Stubbron by L. Ron Hubbard

to go to town, Lootenant?”
    Angel was walking around in small circles, his beautiful face twisted in thought. Now and then he kicked gravel and swore most unangelically.
    T hey were handing Slavinsky the world, that was that. And without a scrap. The slaughter of a Russian war was nothing to anyone compared to the loss of Chicago. Maybe it was logical but it just plain didn’t seem American to be whipped so quick.
    Suddenly he stopped, stared hard at Boyd without seeing him and then socked a fist into his palm.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” said Boyd.
    Angel went into the hangar where the big ship was getting ready to be rolled out on the rails now that her loading was done.
    â€œGeneral,” said Angel, “as long as I may never have the chance again—and being young makes it pretty hard—you might at least let me go to town and buy a couple quarts for the ride up.”
    â€œYou know the value of secrecy,” warned the general. And then more kindly, “You can take my car.”
    Angel stood not. Some fifty seconds later the Cadillac was heading for town at speeds not touched in all its life before.
    Whittaker and Boyd, in the back seat, bounced and applied imaginary brakes.
    â€œListen, you guys,” said Angel. “Your necks are out as much as mine”—he avoided two streetcars at a crossing and screamed on up toward “F” Street—“and I ought to ask your permission.”
    â€œWe’re going to take a load of food to Slavinsky on the moon. Very hush-hush, though the only one we’ve to keep secrets from now is Slavinsky. But I intend to make a try at knocking off that base. Are you with me?”
    â€œWhy not?” said Whittaker.
    â€œYour party,” said Boyd.
    Angel drew up before an apartment house on Connecticut Avenue and rushed out. He was back almost instantly with a grip and considerable lipstick smeared on his cheek.
    Boyd thought he heard a feminine voice in the darkness above calling goodbye as they hurtled away. He grinned to himself. This Angel!
    Their next stop was before a drug store and Angel dashed in. But he was gone longer this time and seemed, according to a glimpse through the window, to be having trouble convincing the druggist. Angel came out empty-handed and beckoned to his two men.
    Whittaker and Boyd walked in. A young pharmacist looked scared. There was no one else in the place.
    Angel walked around behind the pharmacist. “Close the door,” said Angel. Three minutes later the pharmacist was bound quite securely in a back closet.
    Angel ransacked the shelves and loaded up a ninety-eight-cent bag. They turned out the lights and closed the door softly behind them and went away.
    Twenty-one minutes later a young chemical warfare classmate of Angel’s was hauled from the bosom of his family and after some argument and several lies from Angel permitted himself to be convinced by SECNAV’s Cadillac and went away with them.
    They halted at an ordnance depot in Maryland at eight-fifteen and the young chemist opened padlocks and finally, with many words of caution, delivered into Angel’s hands three small flasks.
    It was well before two when Angel and his men came back to the field. They alighted with their burdens and whisked them into the ship.
    â€œFind that drink?” said the general indulgently.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Angel.
    â€œGood boy!” said the general, chuckling over having been young once himself. He had not missed the lipstick and had applied the school solution .
    Commander Dawson was growling and snarling around the ship like a vengeful priest. Behind him came two quartermasters carrying the precious standard chronometer and spyglass.
    â€œBetter get aboard,” said Dawson roughly. “And don’t monkey with those instruments. We’re almost ready.” His scowl promised that it didn’t matter to him what happened: this time he was going to get that