"Trying?"

Tom grinned. "I'm performing the actual operation of the distillation of alcohol."

"That shouldn't make the detector blink."

"There's only one thing that will do that!"

"Not after all this time."

"It's not been long. About ten years," objected Tom. "Look, Benj. Someone has found the Key. And not only that, but they've made it work."

"I'd like to argue the point with you," said Benj pointedly. "Why couldn't you make it tick when we had it seven years ago? You were sharp enough to make a detector, later."

"Detecting is a lot different than generating, Benj. Come on, let's get going. I want to see the dupe that's got the Key."

Had Cal Blair been really satisfied to make his gadget work, he might never have been bothered. But he tinkered with it, measured it, and toyed with it. He called Tinker Elliott to boast and found that she had gone off to Northern Landing with her illustrious brother to speak at a medical convention, and so he returned to his toy. Effectively, his toying with the Key gave enough radiation to follow. And it was followed by two parties.

The first one arrived about midnight. The doorbell rang, and Cal opened it to look into the glittering lens of a needle beam. He went white and retreated backwards until he felt a chair behind his knees. He collapsed into the chair.

"P-p-p-put that thing away!"

"This?" grinned the man, waving the needle beam.

"Shut up, Logy," snapped the other. To Cal, he said: "Where is it?"

"W-w-w-where is w-w-w-what?"

"The Key."

"Key?"

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