"Oh—that's right. I never thought of it that way. So I don't have anything to worry about, do I?" She lifted her lips to be kissed; and the kiss was long and sweet.
Time flew past until, one day a couple of weeks short of arrival, Adams rushed up to Deston and Jones. "I have it!" he shouted, and began to spout a torrent of higher—very much higher—mathematics.
"Hold it, Doc!" Deston held up an expostulatory hand. "I read you zero and ten. Can't you delouse your signal? Whittle the stuff down to our size?"
"W-e-l-l-," the scientist looked hurt, but did consent to forego the high math. "The discharge is catastrophic; in energy equivalent something of the order of magnitude of ten thousand discharges of lightning. And, unfortunately, I do not know what it is. It is virtually certain, however, that we will be able to dissipate it in successive decrements by the use of long, thin leads extending downward toward a high point of the planet."
"Wire, you mean? What kind?"
"The material is not important except in that it should have sufficient tensile strength to support as many miles as possible of its own length."
"We've got dozens of coils of hook-up wire," Deston said, "but not too many miles and it's soft stuff."
"Graham wire!" Jones snapped his finger.
"Of course," Deston agreed. "Hundreds of miles of it. Float the senser down on a Hotchkiss——"