"Too bad," the head project physicist said. "I was hoping that a little Space Wave Tapping could help us out. Let me try a flight with it."
"Teddy Kaner first," Biff announced. "He spotted it while you were all watching the flashing lights, only he didn't say anything."
Kaner slipped the ring with the black thread over his finger and started to step back.
"You have to turn the switch on first," Biff said.
"I know," Kaner smiled. "But that's part of illusion, the spiel and the misdirection. I'm going to try this cold first, so I can get it moving up and down smoothly, then go through it with the whole works."
He moved his hand back smoothly, in a professional manner that drew no attention to it. The model lifted from the table, then crashed back down.
"The thread broke," Kaner said.
"You jerked it, instead of pulling smoothly," Biff said and knotted the broken thread. "Here let me show you how to do it."
The thread broke again when Biff tried it, which got a good laugh that made his collar a little warm. Someone mentioned the poker game.
This was the only time that poker was mentioned or even remembered that night. Because very soon after this they found that the thread would lift the model only when the switch was on and two and a half volts flowed through the joke coils. With the current turned off the model was too heavy to lift. The thread broke every time.
"I still think it's a screwy idea.” the young man said. "I've been one week getting fallen arches, demonstrating those toy ships for every brat within a thousand miles. Then selling the things for three bucks when they must have cost at least a hundred dollars apiece to make."
"But you did sell the ten of them to people who would be interested?" the older man asked.
"I think so. I caught a few air force officers and a colonel in missiles one day. Then there was one official I remembered from the Bureau of Standards. Luckily he didn't recognize me. Then those two professors you spotted from the university."
"Then the problem is out of our hands and into theirs. All we have to do now is sit back and wait for results."
"What results? These people weren't interested when we were hammering on their doors with the proof. We've patented the coils and can prove to anyone that there is a reduction in weight around them when they are operating."
"But a small reduction. And we don't know what is causing it. No one can be interested in a thing like that — a fractional weight decrease in a clumsy model, certainly not enough to lift the weight of the generator. No one wrapped up in massive fuel consumption, tons of lift, and such is going to have time to worry about a crackpot who thinks he has found a minor slip in Newton's laws."
"You think they will now?" the young man asked, cracking his knuckles impatiently.
"I know they will. The tensile strength of that thread is correctly adjusted to the weight of the model. The thread will break if you try to lift the model with it. Yet you can lift the model after a small increment of its weight has been removed by the coils. This is going to bug these men. Nobody is going to ask them to solve the problem or concern themselves with it. But it will nag at them because they know this effect can't possibly exist. They'll see at once that the magnetic-wave theory is nonsense. Or perhaps true? We don't know. But they will all be thinking about it and worrying about it. Someone is going to experiment in his basement, just as a hobby, of course to find the cause of the error. And he or someone else is going to find out what makes those coils work, or maybe a way to improve them!"
"And we have the patents…"
"Correct. They will be doing the research that will take them out of the massive-lift-propulsion business and into the field of pure space light."
"And in doing so they will be making us rich — whenever the time comes to manufacture.” the young man said cynically.
"We'll all be rich, son.” the older man said, patting him on the shoulder. "Believe me, you're not going to recognize this old world ten years from now."
I Always Do What Teddy Says
The little boy lay sleeping, the moonlight effect of the picture-picture window threw a pale glow across his untroubled features. He had one arm clutched around his teddy bear, pulling the round face with its staring button eyes close to his. His father, and the tall man with the black beard, tiptoed silently across the nursery to the side of the bed.
"Slip it away," the tall man said, "then substitute the other."
"No, he would wake up and cry," David's father said. "Let me take care of this, I know what to do."
With gentle hands he lay the other teddy bear down next to the boy, on the other side of his head, so his sleeping cherub face was framed by the wide-eyed unsleeping masks of the toys. Then he carefully lifted the boy's arm from the original teddy and pulled it free. This disturbed Davy without waking him and he ground his teeth together and rolled over, clutching the substitute toy to his cheek, and within a few moments his soft breathing was regular and deep. The boy's father raised his forefinger to his lips and the other man nodded; they left the room without making a sound, closing the door noiselessly behind them.
"Now we begin," Torrence said, reaching out to take the teddy bear. His lips were small and glistened redly in the midst of his dark beard. The teddy bear twisted in his grip and the black-button eyes rolled back and forth.
"Take me back to Davy," it said in a thin and tiny voice.
"Let me have it back.” the boy's father said. "It knows me and won't complain."
His name was Numen and, like Torrence, he was a Doctor of Government. Both DGs and both unemployed by the present government, in spite of their abilities and rank, though they had no physical resemblance. Torrence was a bear, though a small one, a black bear with hair sprouting thickly on his knuckles, twisting out of his white cuffs and lining his ears. His beard was full and thick, rising high up on his cheekbones and dropping low on his chest.
Where Torrence was dark Numen was fair, where short he was tall, thick, thin. A thin bow of a man, bent forward with a scholar's stoop and, though balding now, his hair was still curled and blond and very like the golden ringlets of the boy asleep upstairs. Now he took the toy animal and led the way to the shielded room deep in the house where Eigg was waiting.
"Give it here — here!" Eigg snapped when they came in, and reached for the toy. Eigg was always like that, in a hurry, surly, square and solid with his width of jaw and spotless white laboratory smock. But they needed him.
"You needn't," Numen said, but Eigg had already pulled it from his grasp. "It won't like it, I know…"
"Let me go… let me go. .!" the teddy bear said with a hopeless shrill.
"It is just a machine," Eigg said coldly, putting it facedown on the table and reaching for a scalpel. "You are a grown man, you should be more logical, have your emotions under greater control. You are speaking with your childhood memories, seeing your own boyhood teddy who was your friend and companion. This is just a machine."
With a quick slash he opened the fabric over the seam seal and touched it: the plastic-fur back gaped open like a mouth.
"Let me go… let me go…" the teddy bear wailed and its stumpy arms and legs waved back and forth. Both of the onlookers went white.
"Must we. .?"
"Emotions. Control them," Eigg said and probed with a screwdriver. There was a click and the toy went limp. He began to unscrew a plate in the mechanism.
Numen turned away and found that he had to touch a handkerchief to his face. Eigg was right. He was being emotional and this was just a machine. How did he dare get emotional over it? Particularly with what they had in mind.