The morning, therefore, saw another and somewhat less optimistic conference. As it was breaking up Ben said, "You Tholfsen, take Stevens, Vanderschoof and Lee and get a truck, will you? You'll find one about half a block down the street. Go up to one of the coal pits and get some fuel for our boilers here. We haven't too large a supply."
There was a clanking of feet as they left and Ben turned into the laboratory where Beeville was working, with the scrubwoman as a subject.
"Something interesting here," said the naturalist, looking up as he entered. "The outer surface of this metal appears to be rust-proof, but when you get water on the inside, things seem to go. It acts like a specially annealed compound of some kind. And look—" He seized one of the arms of his subject, who gazed at him with mildly unresisting eyes, and yanked at the outer layer of metal bands that composed it. The band stretched like one of rubber, and she gave a slight squeal as it snapped back into position. "I don't know of any metal that has that flexibility. Do you? Why—"
The door swung open and they turned to see Murray and Tholfsen.
"Beg pardon for interrupting the sacred panjandrum," said the former, "but Stevens and Vanderschoof are indulging in a sulk. They don't want to play with us."
"Oh, hell," remarked Ben cheerfully and started for the door, the other two following him.
He found the recalcitrants soon enough. The Wall Street man was seated across a doctor's desk from Vanderschoof and looked up calmly from an interrupted conversation as Ben entered.
"Thought I asked you two to go with the boys for some coal," said Ben, waving at them. "My mistake. I meant to."
"You did. I'm not going."