reco said, "Here. First installment." He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was metallic—about the size of a penny slot-machine bar of chocolate, if you remember back that far. It gleamed and it glittered. And it was ruddy yellow in color.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Gold," he said. "Keep it, Virgie. It came out of sea water, like you said. Call it the down payment on your salary."
I hefted it. I bit it. I said, "By the way, speaking of salary...."
"Whatever you like," he said wearily. "A million dollars a year? Why not?"
"Why not?" I echoed, a little dazed.
And then I just sat there listening, while he talked. What else was there to do? I won't even say that I was listening, at least not with the very fullest of attention, because that thought of a million dollars a year kept coming between me and his words. But I got the picture. The possibilities were endless. And how well I knew it!
Gold from the sea, sure. But energy—free energy—it was there for the taking. From the molecules of the air, for instance. Refrigerators could be cooled, boilers could get up steam, homes could be heated, forges could be fired—and all without fuel. Planes could fly through the air without a drop of gasoline in their tanks. Anything.
A million dollars a year....
And it was only the beginning.