“Brief me,” Larry said.
“Well—briefly does it—it got out a couple of years ago that some of our rocketeers had bought a solid fuel formula from an Italian research outfit for the star probe project. Paid them a big hunk of Uncle's change for it. So Self sued.”
Larry said, “You're being too brief. What d'ya mean, he sued? Why?”
“Because he claimed he'd submitted the same formula to the same agency a full eighteen months earlier and they'd turned him down.”
“Had he?”
“Probably.”
Larry didn't get it. “Then why'd they turn him down?”
Sam said, “Oh, the government boys had a good alibi. Crackpots turn up all over the place and you have to brush them off. Every cellar scientist who comes along and says he's got a new super-fuel developed from old coffee grounds can't be given the welcome mat. Something was wrong with his math or something and they didn't pay much attention to him. Wouldn't even let him demonstrate it. But it was the same formula, all right.”
Larry Woolford was scowling. “Something wrong with his math? What kind of a degree does he have?”
Sam grinned in memory. “I got a good quote on that. He doesn't have any degree. He said he'd learned to read by the time he'd reached high school and since then he figured spending time in classrooms was a matter of interfering with his education.”