And then it hit him. He was fully fifteen feet from the girl and her little instrument. A half-hour's observational time went into milliseconds in Thomas Lionel's mind as he watched the open drum of asphaltum compound rise out of the open top in a parabolic arc. It arched high, just missing the ceiling, and passing in an ogee curve to miss a stanchion. Forward it came, to curve downward upon his own bare head.
Simultaneously, he was drenched from behind by the arching column of oil from the vat behind him.
In twin, converging arches, Thomas was inundated and thoroughly soaked from head to toe with a whirling mixture of oil and tar.
He cleared his eyes with squeegeeing fingers. Elaine, holding in her laughter with effort, showed him the box.
Above the button it said:
BE AN EPICENTER!
Control that mysterious power. Exert the
forces of hidden nature in your behalf!
PRESS HERE!
"He's found it," croaked Thomas. "He's found it!"
"And you're a mess."