"All right," he said, "I'm now convinced that there's something
different about this milk. I'm not saying anything is wrong with it
because I wouldn't know. All I'm admitting is that it is different. So
what?"

* * * * *

"Come on," Johnny took the ladle from him. He carried the buckets of
Queenie's milk into the cooler room and dumped them in a small
pasturizer.

Then carrying the two pails of Sally's milk, Johnny and the physicist
left the barn and went to the shattered remains of the tractor shed.

Fumbling under wrecked and overturned tables and workbenches, Johnny
found an old and rusted pie tin.

Placing the tin in the middle of the open spaces of the yard, he turned
to Peterson. "Now you take that pail of milk and pour a little into the
pan. Not much, now, just about enough to cover the bottom or a little
more." He again handed the ladle to Peterson.

The scientist dipped out a small quantity of the white fluid and
carefully poured it into the pie plate.

"That's enough," Johnny cautioned. "Now let's set these buckets a good
long ways from here." He picked up the buckets and carried them to the
back porch. He vanished into the kitchen.

By this time, the strange antics of the two men had attracted the
attention of the clamoring newsmen outside the fence and they jammed
against the wire, shouting pleas for an interview or information. The
network television camera crews trained their own high-powered lights
into the yard to add to the brilliance of the military lights and began
recording the scene. Dr. Peterson glared angrily at the mob and turned
as Johnny rejoined him. "Culpepper, are you trying to make a fool of
me?" he hissed.

"Got a match?" Johnny queried, ignoring the question. The pipe-smoking
scientist pulled out a handful of kitchen matches. Johnny produced a
glass fish casting rod with a small wad of cloth tied to the weighted
hook. Leading Peterson back across the yard about fifty feet, Johnny
handed the rag to Peterson.

"Smell it," he said. "I put a little kerosene on it so it would burn
when it goes through the air." Peterson nodded.

"You much of a fisherman?" Johnny asked.

"I can drop a fly on a floating chip at fifty yards," the physicist
said proudly. Johnny handed him the rod and reel. "O.K., Doc, light up
your rag and then let's see you drop it in that pie plate."

While TV cameras hummed and dozens of still photographers pointed
tel