So went the arguments, and when the ten days were completed, they were no closer to the truth than they had been before.
Not entirely true, that. For they hoped to drive—somewhere—at a velocity higher than the speed of light.
With a firm hand, Tom Barden pressed the Start button. The relays clicked and the pilot lights flared red, and then after the warm-up period they turned green.
"This is it," he said, grasping the small lever that would start the automatic sequence.
Silence—almost silence came. From one corner came a small muttering and the click of beads. A throat was cleared unnecessarily, for it, like all others, was both dry and clear. A foot shuffled nervously—
"No!" shouted a voice.
Barden looked at Edith Ward. "Still—?" he said.
She nodded and put her hand over his on the lever. "Want me to prove it?" she said, pushing it home.
There was a tinnily musical note that crept up the scale from somewhere in the sub-audible, up through the audible scale and into the shrilling tones that hurt the ear. It was hard to really tell when it passed above the audible, for the imagination followed it for seconds after the ear ceased to function.