and blew out his breath softly before he
began talking, as though he were composing his beginning sentences in
his mind. Then he said: "The first I heard about it was four months
ago. Considering what's happened since then, it seems a lot longer."
He inhaled deeply from his brandy snifter before continuing. "As head
of the development labs for NAC&M, I was asked to take part as a
witness to a demonstration that had been arranged through some of the
other officers of the company. It was to take place out on Salt Lake
Flats, where--"

* * * * *
* * * * *

It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats, where there was no chance
of hanky-panky. Richard Thorn--who held a Ph.D. from one of the finest
technological colleges in the East, but who preferred to be addressed
as "Mister"--was in a bad mood. He had flown all the way out to Salt
Lake City after being given only a few hours notice, and then had been
bundled into a jeep furnished by the local sales office of NAC&M and
scooted off to the blinding gray-white glare of the Salt Flats. It was
hot and it was much too sunshiny for Thorn. But he had made the
arrangements for the test himself, so he couldn't argue or complain
too loudly. He could only complain mildly to himself that the business
office of the company, which had made the final arrangements, had, in
his opinion, been a little too much in a hurry to get the thing over
with. Thorn himself felt that the test could have at least waited
until the weather cooled off. The only consolation he had was that,
out here, the humidity was so low that he could stay fairly
comfortable in spite of the heat as long as there was plenty of
drinking water. He had made sure to bring plenty.

The cavalcade of vehicles arrived at the appointed spot--umpteen miles
from nowhere--and pulled up in a circle.

Thorn climbed out wearily and saw the man who called himself Sorensen
climb out of the second jeep.

From the first time he had seen him, Thorn had tagged Sorensen as an
Angry Old Man. Not that he was really getting old; he was still
somewhere on the brisk side of fifty. But he wore a perpetual scowl on
his face that looked as though it had been etched there by too many
years of frustration, and his voice always seemed to have an acid edge
to it, like that of an old man who has decided, after decades of
observation, that all men are fools. And yet Thorn thought he
occasionall