Ray was simultaneously trying to get the chair's attention and explaining to me, in staccato asides, how many epochal inventions had been made by amateurs in attic workshops. I said—and this was really bothering me—"But look: do you see anybody with any kind of a gadget? How's he going to hide it? How's he going to focus it, or whatever?"
Ray snorted. "It might be hidden in almost anything. Burgeon's guitar—Gamble's briefcase—Mr. Chairman!"
Duchamp was talking, but I could feel it in my bones that Samwitz was going to get around to Ray next. I leaned closer. "Ray, listen—a thing like this—they wouldn't keep it to themselves, would they?"
"Why not? Wouldn't you—for a while, anyway?" He gave me his bobcat grin. "I can think of quite—a—few things I could do, if I had it."
So could I; that was the whole point. I said, "Yeah. I was hoping we could spot him, before the crowd does." I sighed. "Fat chance, I suppose."
He gave me another side-long look. "That shouldn't be so hard," he drawled.
"You know who it is?"
He put on his most infuriating grin, peering to see how I took it. "I've, got, a few, ideas."
"Who?"
Wrong question. He shook his head with a that-would-be-telling look.