by hypermagnetation, set up a
disruptular wave motion which results in--counter-gravity!"

And there you are! Ninety-nine percent of the time Pat Pending talks
like a normal human being. But ask him to explain the mechanism of one
of his inventions and linguistic hell breaks loose. He begins jabbering
like a schizophrenic parrot reading a Sanskrit dictionary backward! I
sighed and surrendered all hope of ever actually learning _how_ his
great new discovery worked. I turned my thoughts to more important
matters.

"Okay, Pat. We'll dismiss the details as trivial and get down to brass
tacks. What is your invention used for?"

"Eh?" said the redhead.

"It's not enough that an idea is practicable," I pointed out. "It must
also be practical to be of any value in this frenzied modern era. What
good is your invention?"

"What good," demanded Joyce, "is a newborn baby?"

"Don't change the subject," I suggested. "Or come to think of it, maybe
you should. At the diaper level, life is just one damp thing after
another. But how to turn Pat's brainchild into cold, hard cash--that's
the question before the board now.

"Individual flight _a la_ Superman? No dice. I can testify from personal
experience that once you get up there you're completely out of control.
And I can't see any sense in humans trying to fly with jet flames
scorching their base of operations.

"Elevators? Derricks? Building cranes? Possible. But lifting a couple
hundred pounds is one thing. Lifting a few tons is a horse of a
different color.

"No, Pat," I continued, "I don't see just how--"

Sandy Thomas squeaked suddenly and grasped my arm.

"That's it, Mr. Mallory!" she cried. "That's it!"

"Huh? What's what?"

"You wanted to know how Pat could make money from his invention. You've
just answered your own question."

"I have?"

"Horses! Horse racing, to be exact. You've heard of handicaps, haven't
you?"

"I'm overwhelmed with them," I nodded wearily. "A secretary who repulses
my honorable advances, a receptionist who squeals in my ear--"

"Listen, Mr. Mallory, what's the last thing horses do before they go to
the post?"

"Check the tote board," I said promptly, "to find out if I've got any
money on them. Horses hate me. They've formed an equine conspiracy to
prove to me the ancient adage that a fool and his money are soon
parted."

"Wait a minute!" chimed in Joyce thoughtfully. "I know what Sandy means.
They weigh in. Is that right?"

"