But the pieces that lay on the table before him didn't have identifying marks of any kind on them. They were beautifully machined, Manning thought. Nice machining and lots of chrome and the tolerances must have been out of this world. And so what?
His wife came back with a steaming cup of coffee and Manning dangled a doughnut in it. The simple things, he thought abstractly. That was what made life worth living, that was what he was going to miss.
"You got any idea how it works?" Wheeler asked.
Manning shook his head. "I don't think it works at all. A convincing hunk of machinery, something that looks pretty but does nothing."
Wheeler pointed a stubby forefinger at a small cube of metal, approximately three inches on the side, that was apparently the heart of the carburetor. "What do you think that's for?"
"I don't know. It's a sealed unit, something like they have in refrigerators and washing machines. Exactly what it does, I couldn't tell you."
"This doesn't look like the ordinary gadget racket to me," Wheeler said uneasily. "I think we ought to call the Bureau in on it."
Manning shrugged. "National will find out all about it when we submit our report."
"You going to open up the sealed unit?"
Manning hesitated, then shook his head. "No. If we open it before we test the whole thing, then Forsythe would say we tampered with the gadget and naturally it wouldn't perform as he claimed."