Without interrupting their work, the lab technicians responded with loud raspberries. And amid a hail of derisory images came the raucous cry of a backbiter: “Who stole the weather, Powell?” This apparently referred to an obscure episode in Dishonest Abe’s lurid career which no one had ever succeeded in peeping, but which never failed to make Powell blush. It did not fail now. A silent cackle filled the room.

“No. This is serious, peepers. My whole case hangs on something I’ve got to coax out of this man.”

Instantly the silent cackle was stilled.

“This is Dr. Wilson Jordan,” Powell announced. “He specializes in visual physiology and he’s got information I want him to volunteer. Lets make him feel paternal. Please fake obscure visual problems and beg for help. Make him talk.”

They came by ones, by twos, in droves. A red-headed researcher, actually working on a problem of a transistor which would record the TP impulse, hastily invented the fact that TP optical transmission was astigmatic and humbly requested enlightenment. A pair of pretty girls, engrossed in the infuriating dead-end of long range telepathic communication, demanded of Dr. Jordan why transmission of visual images always showed color aberration, which it did not. The Japanese team, experts on the extra sensory Node, center of TP perceptivity, insisted that the Node was in curcuit with the Optic Nerve (it wasn’t within two millimeters of same) and besieged Dr. Jordan with polite hissings and specious proofs.

At 1:00 P.M., Powell said: “I’m sorry to interrupt, Doctor, but your hour is finished and you’ve got important business to—”

“Quite all right. Quite all right,” Jordan interrupted. “Now my dear doctor, if you would try a transaction of the optic—” &c.

At 1:30 P.M., Powell gave the time-signal again. “It’s half past one. Dr. Jordan. You jet at five. I really think—”

“Plenty of time. Plenty of time. Women and rockets, you know. There’s always another. The fact is, my dear sir, your admirable work contains one significant flaw. You have never checked the living Node with a vital dye. Ehrlich Röt, perhaps, or Gentian Violet. I would suggest…” &c.

At 2:00 P.M., a buffet luncheon was served without interrupting the feast of reason.

At 2:30 P.M., Dr. Jordan, flushed and ecstatic, confessed that he loathed the idea of being rich on Callisto. No scientists there. No meetings of the minds. Nothing on the level of this extraordinary seminar.

At 3:00 P.M., he confided to Powell how he had inherited his foul estate. Seemed that Craye D’Courtney originally owned it. The old Reich (Ben’s father) must have swindled it one way or another, and placed it in his wife’s name. When she died, it went to her son. That thief Ben Reich must have had conscience qualms for he threw it into open court, and by some legal hokey-pokey Wilson Jordan came up with it.

“And he must have plenty more on his conscience,” Jordan said. “The things I saw when I worked for him! But all financiers are crooks. Don’t you agree?”