"Oh?" asked Farrell, "Do you read him, too?"
"Sure," grinned Walton. "And say, speaking of comics, I came upon an old, old volume of Webster's International Dictionary in a rare-edition library a couple of months ago in Chicago, and they define 'Comic' as amusing, funny, and ludicrous; not imaginative fiction. How things change."
"They do."
"But to get back to this gold-berg, what is it?"
"Ted," said Channing soberly, "sit down!" Walton did. "Now," grinned Channing, "this screwball gadget is an idea whereby we hope to draw power out of the sun."
Walton swallowed once, and then waved for Joe. "Double," he told the restaurateur. Then to the others he said, "Thanks for seating me. I'm ill, I think. Hearing things. I could swear I heard someone say that this thing is to take power from Sol."
"That's it."
"Um-m-m. Remind me to quit Saturday. This is no job for a man beset by hallucinations."
"You grinning idiot, we're not fooling."
"Then you'd better quit," Walton told Don. "This is no job for a bird with delusions of grandeur, either. Look, Don, you'll want this in the experimental blister at South end? On a coupler to the beam-turret so that it'll maintain direction at Sol?"