“Ready.” Crane riveted his gaze upon the wire.
Seaton touched the wire with the Redeker leads, and it promptly and enthusiastically disappeared. Turning to Crane, who was staring alternately at the new hole in the wall and at the spot where the wire had been, he cried exultantly, “Well, Doubting Thomas, how do you like them potatoes? Did that wire travel, or did it not? Was there some kick to it, or was there not?”
Crane walked to the wall and examined the hole minutely, He explored it with his forefinger; then, bending over, looked through it.
“Hm-m-m . . . well . . .” he said, straightening up. “That hole is as real as the bricks of the wall and you certainly did not make it by sleight-of-hand if you can control that power . . . put it into a hull . . . harness it to the wheels of industry . . . You are offering me a partnership?”
“Yes. I can’t even afford to quit the Service, to say nothing of setting up what we’ll have to have for this job. Besides, working this out is going to be a lot more than a one-man job. It’ll take all the brains both of us have got, and probably a nickle’s worth besides, to lick it.”
“Check. I accept—and thanks a lot for letting me in.” The two shook hands vigorously. Crane said, “The first thing to do, and it must be done with all possible speed, is to get unassailably clear title to that solution, which is, of course, government property. How do you propose going about that?”
“It’s government property—technically—yes; but it was worthless after I had recovered the values and ordinarily it would have been poured down the sink. I saved it just to satisfy my own curiosity as to what was in it. I’ll just stick it in a paper bag and walk out with it, and if anybody asks any questions later, it simply went down the drain, as it was supposed to.”
“Not good enough. We must have clear title, signed, sealed, and delivered. Can it be done?”
“I think so . . . pretty sure of it. There’ll be an auction in about an hour—they have one every Friday—and I can get this bottle of waste condemned easy enough. I can’t imagine anybody bidding on it but us. I’ll fly at it.”
“One other thing first. Will there be any difficulty about your resignation?”
“Not a chance.” Seaton grinned mirthlessly. “They all think I’m screwy they’ll be glad to get rid of me so easy.”
“All right. Go ahead—the solution first.”
“Check,” Seaton said; and very shortly the bottle, sealed by the chief clerk and labeled Item QX47R769BC: one bottle containing waste solution, was on its way to the auction room.
Nor was there any more difficulty about his resignation from the Rare Metals Laboratory. Gossip spreads rapidly.
When the auctioneer reached the one-bottle lot, he looked at it in disgust. Why auction one bottle, when he had been selling barrels of them? But it had an official number; auctioned it must be.
“One bottle full of waste,” he droned, tonelessly. “Any bidders? If not, I’ll throw it—”
Seaton jumped forward and opened his mouth to yell, but was quelled by a sharp dig in the ribs.
“Five cents.” He heard Crane’s calm voice.
“Five cents bid. Any more? Going—going—”
Seaton gulped to steady his voice. “Ten cents.”
“Ten cents. Any more? Going—going—gone,” and Item QX47R769BC became the officially-recorded personal property of Richard B. Seaton.
Just as the transfer was completed Scott caught of Seaton. “Hello, Nobody Holme!” he called gaily. “Was that the famous solution of zero? Wish we’d known it—we’d’ve had fun bidding you up.”
“Not too much, Ferdy.” Seaton was calm enough, now that the precious solution was definitely his own. “This is a cash sale, you know, so it wouldn’t have cost us much, anyway.”
‘That’s true, too,” Scott admitted, nonchalantly enough. “This poor government clerk is broke, as usual. But who’s the ‘we’?”
“Mr. Scott, meet my friend M. Reynolds Crane,” and, as Scott’s eyes opened in astonishment, he added, “He doesn’t think I’m ready for St. Elizabeth’s yet.”
“It’s the bunk, Mr. Crane,” Scott said, twirling his right forefinger near his right ear. “Dick used to be a good old wagon, but he done broke down.”
“That’s what you think!” Seaton took a half step forward, but checked himself even before Crane touched his elbow. “Wait a few weeks, Scotty, and see.”
The two took a cab back to Crane’s house—the bottle being far too valuable to risk on any motorcycle—where Crane poured out a little of the solution into a small vial, which he placed in his safe. He then put the large bottle, carefully packed, into his massive underground vault, remarking, “We’ll take no chances at all with that.”
“Right,” Seaton agreed. “Well, let’s get busy. The first thing to do is to hunt up a small laboratory that’s for rent.”
“Wrong. The organization of our company comes first—suppose I should die before we solve the problem? I suggest something like this. Neither of us want to handle the company as such, so it will be a stock company, capitalized at one million dollars, with ten thousand shares of stock. McQueen, who is handling my affairs at the bank, can be president; Winters, his attorney, and Robinson, his C.P.A., secretary and treasurer; you and I will be superintendent and general manager. To make up seven directors, we could elect Mr. Vaneman and Shiro: As for the capital, I will put in half a million; you will put in your idea and your solution, at a preliminary, tentative valuation of half a million—”
“But, Mart—”
“Hold on, Dick. Let me finish. They are worth much more than that, of course, and will be revalued later, but that will do for a start. . . .”
“Hold on yourself for a minute. Why tie up all that cash when a few thousand bucks is all we’ll need?
“A few thousand? Think a minute, Dick. How much testing equipment will you need? How about salaries and wages? How much of a spaceship can you build for a million dollars? And power-plants run from a hundred million up. Convinced?”
“Well, maybe . . . except, right at first, I thought . . .”
“You will see that this is a very small start, the way it is. Now to call the meeting.”
He called McQueen, the president of the great trust company in whose care the bulk of his fortune was. Seaton, listening to the brief conversation, realized as never before what power was wielded by his friend.
In a surprisingly short time the men were assembled in Crane’s library. Crane called the meeting to order; outlined the nature and scope of the proposed corporation; and The Seaton-Crane Company, Engineers began to come into being.
After the visitors had gone, Seaton asked, “Do you know what kind of a rental agent to call to get hold of a laboratory?”
“For awhile at least, the best place for you to work is right here.”
“Here! You don’t want stuff like that loose around here, do you?”
“Yes. The reasons are: first, privacy; second, convenience. We have much of the material and equipment you will need already on hand, out in the hanger and the shops, and plenty of room to install anything new you may need. Third, no curiosity. The Cranes have been inventors, tinkerers, and mechanics so long, that no planning board has ever been able to zone our shops out; and our nearest neighbors—and none are very near, as you know, since I own over forty acres here—are so used to peculiar happenings that they no longer pay any attention to anything that goes on here.”
“Fine! If that’s the way you want it, it suits me down to the ground. Let’s get busy!”
Chapter 5
DR. MARC C. DUQUESNE was a tall, powerful man, built very much like Richard Seaton. His thick, slightly wavy hair was intensely black. His eyes, only a trifle lighter in shade, were surmounted by thick black eyebrows, which grew together above his aquiline, finely-chiseled nose. His face, although not pale, appeared so because of the heavy black beard always showing through, even after the closest possible shave. In his early thirties, he was widely known as one of the best men in his field.
Scott came into his laboratory immediately after the auction, finding him leaning over the console of the whatsitron, his forbidding but handsome face strangely illuminated by the greenish-yellowish-blue ,glare of the machine.
Hello, Blackie,” Scott said. “What d’you think of Seaton? Think he’s quite right in the head?”
“Speaking off-hand,” DuQuesne replied, without looking up, “I’d say he’s been putting in too many hours working and not enough sleeping. I don’t think he’s insane—I’d swear in court that he’s the sanest crazy man I ever heard of.”