Dick adjusted the first tube.
“Equivalent to inductance,” he muttered. “I tune the set with it.”
The milliammeter quivered slightly, responding to atmospherics, presumably, for there were no stations operating at the time on the wave length to which the set was tuned.
Stan looked at his watch.
“In one minute,” he said, “the largest broadcasting station in San Francisco will come on.”
The room became deathly quiet save for the hum of the transformer and the ticking of the watch which Stan held in his hand, as the seconds marched their way into eternity. Then—a spurt of flame, and the milliammeter fell to the floor, not alone burned out, but burned almost in half.
The two men stared at each other through their leaden goggles. Stan groped for the telephone on the bench and rang up the broadcasting station.
“Hello, hello,” the voice at the other end of the wire answered excitedly, before he had a chance to speak. “The first of a hundred ’phone calls to ask why we’re late? No program tonight—all our tubes blew out at once—generator, too—almost as if something suddenly doubled the load on ’em....”
The voice ceased as the connection clicked off. Two other broadcasting stations came on simultaneously, as the loud-speaker attached to the set which Dick had placed in operation testified. He looked up to receive Stan’s news and, little surprized, turned again to the tuning tube of the V-ray receiver, quickly tuning to the wave-length of the two stations now on the air, while Stan, aware at last of what he was doing, placed a heavy ammeter across the output terminals. The needle on the ammeter dial hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, then jumped to its maximum position. An instant later the instrument fell to the floor, a smoking ruin.
The two men looked at each other, their eyes bulging.