As the guinea pig slumped beside its companion, the disc on its collar emitted a harsh, buzzing noise.
Whitney chuckled. "Slowed heartbeat, eh? Simple as that!"
"And better than any burglar alarm," I pointed out. "This one needn't sit still while some crook disconnects it!"
He pointed out, of course, that this might destroy its usefulness to people in a police-state. The dictator's police and troops could wear "Hey, Rube!" radios, too. I replied that all the people's underground fighters would need is a Cooling pistol and a saw-edged meat knife. One man could knock over a whole platoon and cut their heel-tendons in minutes. "The American Indians used to collect scalps in less time!" I said. "But a wounded man's more trouble to the enemy than a dead one. I think the heel-tendon would be easiest."
Perhaps it was a bit out of character for me. Whitney looked at me for a long moment, and blinked. Both eyes, tight.
But still he didn't think much of my plans.
His subsequent suggestions were far more rational, however, than the ones I had evolved through fear.
First, we didn't really know the Armed Forces would suppress this gun. They were completely involved in their problems of space flight and military satellites; there probably wasn't anyone left in Washington who was even looking for secret weapons now. And we just might get this gun through while they weren't looking.
He suggested, therefore, that I attempt to patent my invention. But that we should take adequate safeguards: I must handle all patent correspondence through his office. Then, if the Armed Forces clamped down, they'd come there first—and he could tip me off in time to escape. I'd have to flee the country. But at least I'd be free and we could adopt other measures for bringing out the gun.