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 119 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 occasionally caught a glimpse of mocking humor in the pale blue eyes. He was lean and rather tall, with white hair that still showed traces of blond, and he looked as Scandinavian as his name sounded. His accent was pure Minnesota American.

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As he climbed out of the jeep, Sorensen brought with 

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