The Skylark of Space E-Book

E. E. Smith

• Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

This is the first in the great Skylark series - a voyage to the ends of the Universe!

Leseprobe

The Skylark of Space

by E. E. Smith

First published in 1928

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

The Skylark of Space

by

E. E. "Doc" Smith

Chapter 1

Petrified with astonishment, Richard Seaton stared after the copper steam–bath upon which, a moment before, he had been electrolyzing his solution of "X," the unknown metal. As soon as he had removed the beaker with its precious contents the heavy bath had jumped endwise from under his hand as though it were alive. It had flown with terrific speed over the table, smashing a dozen reagent–bottles on its way, and straight on out through the open window. Hastily setting the beaker down, he seized his binoculars and focused them upon the flying bath, which now, to the unaided vision, was merely a speck in the distance. Through the glass he saw that it did not fall to the ground, but continued on in a straight line, its rapidly diminishing size alone showing the enormous velocity at which it was moving. It grew smaller and smaller. In a few seconds it disappeared.

Slowly lowering the binoculars to his side, Seaton turned like a man in a trance. He stared dazedly, first at the litter of broken bottles covering the table, and then at the empty space under the hood where the bath had stood for so many years.

Aroused by the entrance of his laboratory helper, he silently motioned him to clean up the wreckage.

"What happened, doctor?"

"Search me, Dan…. wish I knew, myself," Seaton replied, absently, lost in wonder at what he had just seen.

Ferdinand Scott, a chemist from an adjoining laboratory, entered breezily.

"Hello, Dicky, thought I heard a rack—Good Lord! What you been celebrating? Had an explosion?"

"Uh–uh." Seaton shook his head. "Something funny—darned funny. I can tell you what happened, but that's all."

He did so, and while he talked he prowled about the big room, examining minutely every instrument, dial, meter, gauge, and indicator in the place.

Scott's face showed in turn interest, surprise, and pitying alarm. "Dick, boy, I don't know why you wrecked the joint, and I don't know whether that yarn came out of a bottle or a needle, but believe me, it stinks. It's an honest–to–God, bottled–in–bond stinkeroo if I ever heard one. You'd better lay off the stuff, whatever it is."

Seeing that Seaton was paying no attention to him, Scott left the room, shaking his head.

Seaton walked slowly to his desk, picked up his blackened and battered briar pipe, and sat down. What could possibly have happened, to result in such shattering of all the natural laws he knew? An inert mass of metal couldn't fly off into space without the application of a force—in this case an enormous, a really tremendous force—a force probably of the order of magnitude of atomic energy. But it hadn't been atomic energy. That was out. Definitely. No hard radiation…His instruments would have indicated and recorded a hundredth of a millimicrocurie, and every one of them had sat placidly on dead–center zero through the whole show. What was that force?

And where? In the cell? The solution? The bath? Those three places were…all the places there were.

Concentrating all the power of his mind—deaf, dumb, and blind to every external thing—he sat motionless, with his forgotten pipe clenched between his teeth.

He sat there while most of his fellow chemists finished the day's work and went home; sat there while the room slowly darkened with the coming of night.

Finally he stood up and turned on the lights. Tapping the stem of his pipe against his palm, he spoke aloud. "Absolutely the only unusual incidents in this whole job were a slight slopping over of the solution onto the copper and the short–circuiting of the wires when I grabbed the beaker…wonder if it will repeat…."

He took a piece of copper wire and dipped it into the solution of the mysterious metal. Upon withdrawing it he saw that the wire had changed its appearance, the X having apparently replaced a layer of the original metal. Standing well clear of the table, he touched the wire with the conductors. There was a slight spark, a snap, and it disappeared. Simultaneously there was a sharp sound, like that made by the impact of a rifle bullet, and Seaton saw with amazement a small round hole where the wire had gone completely through the heavy brick wall. There was power—and how!—but whatever it was, it was a fact. A demonstrable fact.

Suddenly he realized that he was hungry; and, glancing at his watch, saw that it was ten o'clock. And he had had a date for dinner at seven with his fiancée at her home, their first dinner since their engagement! Cursing himself for an idiot, he hastily left the laboratory. Going down the corridor, he saw that Marc DuQuesne, a fellow research man, was also working late. He left the building, mounted his motorcycle, and was soon tearing up Connecticut Avenue toward his sweetheart's home.

On the way, an idea struck him like a blow of a fist. He forgot even his motorcycle, and only the instinct of the trained rider saved him from disaster during the next few blocks. As he drew near his destination, however, he made a determined effort to pull himself together.

"What a stunt!" he muttered ruefully to himself as he considered what he had done. "What a stupid jerk! If she doesn't give me the bum's rush for this I'll never do it again if I live to be a million years old!"

Chapter 2

As evening came on and the fireflies began flashing over the grounds of her luxurious Chevy Chase home, Dorothy Vaneman went upstairs to dress. Mrs. Vaneman's eyes followed her daughter's tall, trim figure more than a little apprehensively. She was wondering about this engagement. True, Richard was a fine chap and might make a name for himself, but at present he was a nobody and, socially, he would always be a nobody…and men of wealth, of distinction, of impeccable social status, had paid court…but Dorothy—no, "stubborn" was not too strong a term—when Dorothy made up her mind…

Unaware of her mother's look, Dorothy went happily up the stairs. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was only a little after six, and sat down at her dressing table, upon which there stood a picture of Richard. A strong, not unhandsome face, with keen, wide–set gray eyes; the wide brow of the thinker, surmounted by thick, unruly, dark hair; the firm, square jaw of the born fighter—such was the man whose vivid personality, fierce impetuosity, and indomitable perseverance had set him apart from all other men ever since their first meeting, and who had rapidly cleared the field of all other aspirants for her favor. Her breath came faster and her cheeks showed a lovelier color as she sat there, the lights playing in her heavy auburn hair and a tender smile upon her lips.

Dorothy dressed with unusual care and, the last touches deftly made, went downstairs and out upon the porch to wait for her guest.

Half an hour passed. Mrs. Vaneman came to the door and said anxiously, "I wonder if anything could have happened to him?"

"Of course there hasn't." Dorothy tried to keep all concern out of her voice. "Traffic jams—or perhaps he has been picked up again for speeding. Can Alice keep dinner a little longer?"

"To be sure," her mother answered, and disappeared.

But when another half hour had passed Dorothy went in, holding her head somewhat higher than usual and wearing a say–something–if–you–dare expression.

The meal was eaten in polite disregard of the unused plate. The family left the table. For Dorothy the evening was endless; but at the usual time it was ten o'clock, and then ten–thirty, and then Seaton appeared.

Dorothy opened the door, but Seaton did not come in. He stood close to her, but did not touch her. His eyes searched her face anxiously. Upon his face was a look of indecision, almost of fright—a look so foreign to his usual expression that the girl smiled in spite of herself.

"I'm awfully sorry, sweetheart, but I couldn't help it. You've got a right to be sore and I ought to be kicked from here to there, but are you too sore to let me talk to you for a couple of minutes?"

"I was never so mad at anybody in my life, until I started getting scared witless. I simply couldn't and can't believe you'd do anything like that on purpose. Come in."

He came. She closed the door. He half–extended his arms, then paused, irresolute, like a puppy hoping for a pat but expecting a kick. She grinned then, and came into his arms.

"But what happened, Dick?" she asked later. "Something terrible, to make you act like this. I've never seen you act so—so funny."

"Not terrible, Dotty, just extraordinary. So outrageously extraordinary that before I begin I wish you'd look me in the eye and tell me if you have any doubts about my sanity."

She led him into the living room, held his face up to the light, and made a pretense of studying his eyes.

"Richard Ballinger Seaton, I certify that you are entirely sane—quite the sanest man I ever knew. Now tell me the worst. Did you blow up the Bureau with a C–bomb?"

"Nothing like that," he laughed. "Just a thing I can't understand. You know I've been reworking the platinum wastes that have been accumulating for the last ten or fifteen years."

"Yes, you told me you'd recovered a small fortune in platinum and some of those other metals. You thought you'd found a brand–new one. Did you?"

"I sure did. After I'd separated out everything I could identify, there was quite a lot of something left—something that didn't respond to any tests I knew or could find in the literature.

"That brings us up to today. As a last resort, because there wasn't anything else left, I started testing for trans–uranics, and there it was. A stable—almost stable, I mean—isotope; up where no almost–stable isotopes are supposed to exist. Up where I would've bet my last shirt no such isotope could possibly exist.

"Well, I was trying to electrolyze it out when the fireworks started. The solution started to fizz over, so I grabbed the beaker—fast. The wires dropped onto the steam–bath and the whole outfit, except the beaker, took off out of the window at six or eight times the speed of sound and in a straight line, without dropping a foot in as far as I could keep it in sight with a pair of good binoculars. And my hunch is that it's still going. That's what happened. Its enough to knock any physicist into an outside loop, and with my one–cylinder brain I got to thinking about it and simply didn't come to until after ten o'clock. All I can say is, I'm sorry and I love you. As much as I ever did or could. More, if possible. And I always will. Can you let it go—this time?"

"Dick…oh, Dick!"

There was more—much more—but eventually Seaton mounted his motorcycle and Dorothy walked beside him down to the street. A final kiss and the man drove away.

After the last faint glimmer of red tail–light had disappeared in the darkness Dorothy made her way to her room, breathing a long and slightly tremulous, but supremely happy sigh.

Chapter 3

Seaton's childhood had been spent in the mountains of northern Idaho, a region not much out of the pioneer stage and offering few inducements to intellectual effort. He could only dimly remember his mother, a sweet, gentle woman with a great love for books; but his father, "Big Fred" Seaton, a man of but one love, almost filled the vacant place. Fred owned a quarter–section of virgin white–pine timber, and in that splendid grove he established a home for himself and his motherless boy.

In front of the cabin lay a level strip or meadow, beyond which rose a magnificent, snow–crowned peak that caught the earliest rays of the sun.

This mountain, dominating the entire countryside, was to the boy a challenge, a question, and a secret. He accepted the challenge, scaling its steep sides, hunting its forests, and fishing its streams. He toughened his sturdy young body by days and nights upon its slopes. He puzzled over the question of its origin as he lay upon the needles under some monster pine. He put staggering questions to his father; and when in books he found some partial answers his joy was complete. He discovered some of the mountain's secrets then—some of the laws that govern the world of matter, some of the beginnings man's mind has made toward understanding the hidden mechanism of Nature's great simplicity.

Each taste of knowledge whetted his appetite for more. Books! Books! More and more he devoured them; finding in them meat for the hunger that filled him, answers to the questions that haunted him.

After Big Fred lost his life in the forest fire that destroyed his property, Seaton turned his back upon the woods forever. He worked his way through high school and won a scholarship at college. Study was a pleasure to his keen mind; and he had ample time for athletics, for which his backwoods life had fitted him outstandingly. He went out for everything, and excelled in football and tennis.

In spite of the fact that he had to work his way he was popular with his college mates, and his popularity was not lessened by an almost professional knowledge of sleight–of–hand. His long, strong fingers could move faster than the eye could follow, and many a lively college party watched in vain to see how he did what he did.

After graduating with highest honors as a physical chemist, he was appointed research fellow in a great university, where he won his Ph.D. by brilliant research upon rare metals—his dissertation having the lively title of "Some Observations upon Certain Properties of Certain Metals, Including Certain Trans–Uranic Elements." Soon afterward he had his own room in the Rare Metals Laboratory, in Washington, D.C.

He was a striking figure—well over six feet in height, broad–shouldered, narrow–waisted, a man of tremendous physical strength. He did not let himself grow soft in his laboratory job, but kept in hard, fine condition. He spent most of his spare time playing tennis, swimming and motorcycling.

As a tennis–player he quickly became well–known in Washington sporting and social circles. During the District Tournament he met M. Reynolds Crane—known to only a very few intimates as "Martin"—the multi–millionaire explorer–archaeologist–sportsman who was then District singles champion. Seaton had cleared the lower half of the list and played Crane in the final round. Crane succeeded in retaining his title, but only after five of the most grueling, most bitterly contested sets ever seen in Washington.

Impressed by Seaton's powerful, slashing game, Crane suggested that they train together as a doubles team. Seaton accepted instantly, and the combination was highly effective.

Practising together almost daily, each came to know the other as a man of his own kind, and a real friendship grew up between them. When the Crane–Seaton team had won the District Championship and had gone to the semi–finals of the National before losing, the two were upon a footing which most brothers could have envied. Their friendship was such that neither Crane's immense wealth and high social standing nor Seaton's comparative poverty and lack of standing offered any obstacle whatever. Their comradeship was the same, whether they were in Seaton's modest room or in Crane's palatial yacht.

Crane had never known the lack of anything that money could buy. He had inherited his fortune and had little or nothing to do with its management, preferring to delegate that job to financial specialists. However, he was in no sense an idle rich man with no purpose in life. As well as being an explorer and an archaeologist and a sportsman, he was also an engineer—a good one—and a rocket–instrument man second to none in the world.

The old Crane estate in Chevy Chase was now, of course, Martin's, and he had left it pretty much as it was. He had, however, altered one room, the library, and it was now peculiarly typical of the man. It was a large room, very long, with many windows. At one end was a huge fireplace, before which Crane often sat with his long legs outstretched, studying one or several books from the cases close at hand. The essential furnishings were of a rigid simplicity, but the treasures he had gathered transformed the room into a veritable museum.

He played no instrument, but in a corner stood a magnificent piano, bare of any ornament; and a Stradivarius reposed in a special cabinet. Few people were asked to play either of those instruments; but to those few Crane listened in silence, and his brief words of thanks showed his real appreciation of music.

He made few friends, not because he hoarded his friendship, but because, even more than most rich men, he had been forced to erect around his real self an almost impenetrable screen.

As for women, Crane frankly avoided them, partly because his greatest interests in life were things in which women had neither interest nor place, but mostly because he had for years been the prime target of the man–hunting debutantes and the matchmaking mothers of three continents.

Dorothy Vaneman with whom he had become acquainted through his friendship with Seaton, had been admitted to his friendship. Her frank comradeship was a continuing revelation, and it was she who had last played for him.

She and Seaton had been caught near his home by a sudden shower and had dashed in for shelter. While the rain beat outside, Crane had suggested that she pass the time by playing his "fiddle." Dorothy, a Doctor of Music and an accomplished violinist, realized with the first sweep of the bow that she was playing an instrument such as she had known only in her dreams, and promptly forgot everything else. She forgot the rain, the listeners, the time and the place; she simply poured into that wonderful violin everything she had of beauty, of tenderness, of artistry.

Sure, true, and full the tones filled the big room, and in Crane's vision there rose a home filled with happy work, with laughter and companionship. Sensing the girl's dreams as the music filled his ears, he realized as never before in his busy and purposeful life what a home with the right woman could be like. No thought of love for Dorothy entered his mind—he knew that the love existing between her and Dick was of the sort that only death could alter—but he knew that she had unwittingly given him a great gift. Often thereafter in his lonely hours he saw that dream home, and knew that nothing less than its realization would ever satisfy him.

Chapter 4

Returning to his boarding house, Seaton undressed and went to bed, but not to sleep. He knew that he had seen what could very well become a workable space–drive that afternoon…. After an hour of trying to force himself to sleep he gave up, went to his desk, and started to study. The more he studied, the more strongly convinced he became that this first thought was right—the thing could become a space–drive.

By breakfast time he had the beginnings of a tentative theory roughed out, and also had gained some idea of the nature and magnitude of the obstacles to overcome.

Arriving at the Laboratory, he found that Scott had spread the news of his adventure, and his room was soon the center of interest. He described what he had seen and done to the impromptu assembly of scientists, and was starting in on the explanation he had deduced when he was interrupted by Ferdinand Scott.

"Quick, Dr. Watson, the needle!" he exclaimed. Seizing a huge pipette from a rack, he went through the motions of injecting its contents into Seaton's arm.

"It does sound like a combination of science–fiction and Sherlock Holmes," one of the visitors remarked.

"'Nobody Holme,' you mean," Scott said, and a general chorus of friendly but skeptical jibes followed.

"Wait a minute, you hidebound dopes, and I'll show you!" Seaton snapped. He dipped a short piece of copper wire into his solution.

It did not turn brown; and when he touched it with his conductors, nothing happened. The group melted away. As they left, some of the men maintained a pitying silence, but Seaton heard one half–smothered chuckle and several remarks about "cracking under the strain."

Bitterly humiliated at the failure of his demonstration, Seaton scowled morosely at the offending wire. Why should the thing work twice yesterday and not even once today? He reviewed his theory and could find no flaw in it. There must have been something going last night that wasn't going now…something capable of affecting ultra–fine structure…. It had to be either in the room or very close by… and no ordinary generator or X–ray machine could possibly have had any effect….

There was one possibility—only one. The machine in DuQuesne's room next to his own, the machine he himself had, every once in a while, helped rebuild.

It was not a cyclotron, not a betatron. In fact, it had as yet no official name. Unofficially, it was the "whatsitron," or the "maybetron," or the "itaintsotron" or any one of many less descriptive and more profane titles which he, DuQuesne, and the other researchers used among themselves. It did not take up much room. It did not weigh ten thousand tons. It did not require a million kilowatts of power. Nevertheless it was—theoretically—capable of affecting super–fine structure.

But in the next room? Seaton doubted it.

However, there was nothing else, and it had been running the night before—its glare was unique and unmistakable. Knowing that DuQuesne would turn his machine on very shortly, Seaton sat in suspense, staring at the wire. Suddenly the subdued reflection of the familiar glare appeared on the wall outside his door—and simultaneously the treated wire turned brown.

Heaving a profound sigh of relief, Seaton again touched the bit of metal with the wires from the Redeker cell. It disappeared instantaneously with a high whining sound.

Seaton started for the door, to call his neighbors in for another demonstration, but in mid–stride changed his mind. He wouldn't tell anybody anything until he knew something about the thing himself. He had to find out what it was, what it did, how and why it did it, and how—or if—it could be controlled. That meant time, apparatus and, above all, money. Money meant Crane; and Mart would be interested, anyway.

Seaton made out a leave–slip for the rest of the day, and was soon piloting his motorcycle out Connecticut Avenue and into Crane's private drive. Swinging under the imposing portecochère he jammed on his brakes and stopped in a shower of gravel, a perilous two inches from granite. He dashed up the steps and held his finger firmly against the bell button. The door was opened hastily by Crane's Japanese servant, whose face lit up on seeing the visitor.

"Hello, Shiro. Is the honorable son of Heaven up yet?"

"Yes, sir, but he is at present in his bath."

"Tell him to snap it up, please. Tell him I've got a thing on the fire that'll break him right off at the ankles."

Bowing the guest to a chair in the library, Shiro hurried away. Returning shortly, he placed before Seaton the Post, the Herald, and a jar of Seaton's favorite brand of tobacco, and said, with his unfailing bow, "Mr. Crane will appear in less than one moment, sir."

Seaton filled and lit his briar and paced up and down the room, smoking furiously. In a short time Crane came in.

"Good morning, Dick." The men shook hands cordially. "Your message was slightly garbled in transmission. Something about a fire and ankles is all that came through. What fire? And whose ankles were—or are about to be—broken?"

Seaton repeated.

"Ah, yes, I thought it must have been something like that. While I have breakfast, will you have lunch?"

"Thanks, Mart, guess I will. I was too excited to eat much of anything this morning." A table appeared and the two men sat down at it. "I'll just spring it on you cold, I guess. Just what would you think of working with me on a widget to liberate and control the entire constituent energy of metallic copper? Not in little dribbles and drabbles, like fission or fusion, but one hundred point zero zero zero zero per cent conversion? No radiation, no residue, no by–products—which means no shielding or protection would be necessary—just pure and total conversion of matter to controllable energy?"

Crane, who had a cup of coffee half–way to his mouth, stopped it in mid–air, and stared at Seaton eye to eye. This, in Crane the Imperturbable, betrayed more excitement than Seaton had ever seen him show. He finished lifting the cup, sipped, and replaced the cup studiously, meticulously, in the exact center of its saucer.

"That would undoubtedly constitute the greatest technological advance the world has ever seen," he said, finally. "But, if you will excuse the question, how much of that is fact, and how much fancy? That is, what portion have you actually done, and what portion is more or less justified projection into the future?"

"About one to ninety–nine—maybe less," Seaton admitted. "I've hardly started. I don't blame you for gagging on it a bit—everybody down at the lab thinks I'm nuttier than a fruitcake. Here's what actually happened," and he described the accident in full detail. "And here's the theory I've worked out, so far, to cover it." He went on to explain.

"That's the works," Seaton concluded, tensely, "as clearly as I can put it. What do you think of it?"

"An extraordinary story, Dick…really extraordinary. I understand why the men at the Laboratory thought as they did, especially after your demonstration failed. I would like to see it work, myself, before discussing further actions or procedures."

"Fine! That suits me down to the ground—get into your clothes and I'll take you down to the lab on my bike. If I don't show you enough to make your eyes stick out a foot I'll eat that motorsickle, clear down to the tires!"

As soon as they arrived at the Laboratory, Seaton assured himself that the "whatsitron" was still running, and arranged his demonstration. Crane remained silent, but watched closely every movement Seaton made.

"I take a piece of ordinary copper wire, so," Seaton began. "I dip it into this beaker of solution, thus. Note the marked change in its appearance. I place the wire upon this bench—so—with the treated end pointing out of the window…."

"No. Toward the wall. I want to see the hole made."

"Very well—with the treated end pointing toward that brick wall. This is an ordinary eight–watt Redeker cell. When I touch these lead–wires to the treated wire, watch closely. The speed is supersonic, but you'll hear it, whether you see what happens or not. Ready?"

"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 sight 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?"