Dead silence in the studio. The announcer quavered, “Wh-what was that again, buddy?”
“I said,” Ross repeated firmly, “L-sub-T equals L-sub-zero e to the——”
“Now, wait a minute, buddy,” the announcer ordered. “We never had no stuff like that on this program before. Whaddya, some kind of a wise guy?”
There might have been violence; the conditions were right for it. But Uncle Smiley Smog saved the day.
The papier-mâché figure puffed a blinding series of smoke rings at Ross. From its molded torso, the weary voice said:
“If you’re looking for counsel sagacious and wise,
The price is ten cents. It’s right under your eyes.”
They left the studio in a storm of animosity.
“Maybe we could have collected the forfeit,” Doc said hopefully.
“Maybe we could have collected some lumps,” Ross growled. “Got any more ideas?”