Barden's tracks were swift from there on. His first stop was to deposit the check in the bank to the amazement of his teller who felt forced to check the validity of the voucher despite the fact that it was certified. To have Thomas Barden, whose average salary had run about a hundred-fifty per week suddenly drop twenty-five thousand in the bank was—to the banker's point of view—slightly irregular.
Barden was not able to get out of the bank without having Mr. Coogan, the president of the bank, catch him and ply him with seventeen suggestions as to how the money could be invested. Tom almost had to get insulting before he could leave.
The next month was a harrowing, mad maze of events. He rented an unused factory, complete with machine tools. He hired seven men to help him, and then ran into difficulties because he had to make the equipment to make the machines. He found that starting from complete behind-scratch was a back-breaking job. Daily, the railroad spur dropped a freight car to be unloaded with stuff from one of the leading manufacturers of scientific equipment. The electric company took a sizable bite when they came along the poles with some wrist-thick cables and terminated it at his plant. He ended up by hiring three more men and putting them to making samples of some of the other by-products, knowing that his money would not last forever. The board of review had mentioned three million, but Barden was beginning to understand that despite all new types of equipment, they were still considering the basic physical laboratory as useful. They were right. It was a lot different starting from an empty factory and taking off from a well-maintained laboratory.
The days sped by and became weeks. The weeks passed and became months. And as the months worked themselves slowly past, chaos disappeared and order came from madness.
The by-products of the alien science came swiftly, and they sold well. Money flowed in fast enough to attract attention, and it was gratifying to Tom Barden to read an account of his "meteoric rise" that started from the day he "disagreed violently with the famed Dr. Ward."
If he had wanted money or fame, here it was. But Barden knew the story behind the story, and he also knew that whoever the alien might be, from whatever system, and adhering to whatever culture, the alien would find no fault in his operations. He had taken the long, hard road compared to the road taken by an accredited scientist producing such a theory. He cursed the delay and knew that it might have cut his time down to a dangerous minimum.
But Tom Barden had become the genius of the age. His factory had grown to a good staff, all but a few of whom worked on the basic science he needed to develop. It was developing slowly, but certainly, and each experiment showed him that the alien mind had been absolutely correct.
Daily he taught school for a hour. He knew every step, but he wanted his men to know the art when they were finished; the final experiment made. They would emerge from this trial-without-error period as technicians qualified to work on any phase of the new science. It gave him no small pleasure to know that his outfit would eventually be far ahead of the famous Solar Space Laboratory in techniques pertaining to the art of space travel. He hoped to make Dr. Edith Ward sit quietly down and eat her own words—backwards!
His plans were not published, and the outpourings of by-products seemed high enough to any observer to be the sensible output of the many men working there. None but those who worked there knew that Tom Barden knew every detail of every gadget that hit the various markets, and that the work of making the initial models was not the result of many man-hours of experiment, but a few man-hours of building to plans that had been proven and in use.