The engineer's trap had been excellent. But the trap had turned and caught the engineer. Those reams of data on the poltergeist effect had been the basis for an entirely new science that only a real physicist could appreciate—and no engineer could hope to thread his way through them without a research physicist's assistance.
He stood over the chessboard in the living room for a few minutes. The engineer was not making any great moves. Therefore the physicist thought that he might best consolidate his position. He castled to the queen's side, burying his king behind a bulwark of defenses that would defy a master chess player to penetrate in less than ten or fifteen moves.
During breakfast, he perused a thin volume of recent publication. He did not entirely agree with the theories presented; after all, the book had been written for the express purpose of getting reader's viewpoints and Thomas knew it. In fact, the book was not too interesting to Thomas but he knew that the engineer would fume, fret, and howl at the idea of having a well-thumbed volume of "Theory of Multi-Resonant Wave Guides" in the library.
Thomas wouldn't look at the engineer's volume, laying on the table opposite. It was too un-physical. It was un-erudite. It was "Basic Theory in Micro-Wave Transmission" and the edges of the pages were loaded with application formulas, diagrams, and working sketches.
He was near the end of breakfast when the glint of reflected sunshine arrowed through the window and caught his eye. He looked, and wondered who was landing on his lawn in a helicopter.
Then he did a double take.
"Helicopter" stemmed from Greek, the "helix" or screw plus the "opter" a machine. This contrivance did not. It was not operated with air screws.
It looked like a three-wheeled coupé. It looked like the industrial designer's dream of the Plan For Tomorrow, excepting those three wheels. The Plan For Tomorrow should, by all rights, have four wheels. And, if the thing is going to fly, it should have some sort of overhead vanes, or wings, or engines, or jets, or even a skyhook. But there it was, coming down as light as a feather to make a neat landing on the back lawn.
By the time the door was open, and the passenger stepped to the ground, Thomas was standing before the little sky car, looking somewhat dazed at the name:
POLTERGEIST