"Sandra, Mr. Pending," she sighed softly. "To you just plain ... Sandy. Please?"
"Well, Sandy—" Pat gulped.
I said disgustedly, "Look, you two—break it up! Love at first sight is wonderful in books, but in a Federal office I'm pretty sure it's unconstitutional, and it may be subversive. Would you mind coming down to earth? Pat, you barged in here squalling about some new invention. Is that correct?"
With an effort Pat wrenched his gaze from his new-found admirer and nodded soberly.
"That's right, Mr. Mallory. And a great one, too. One that will revolutionate the world. Will you give me an applicaceous form, please? I want to file it immediately."
"Not so fast, Pat. You know the routine. What's the nature of this remarkable discovery?"
"You may write it down," said Pat grandiloquently, "as Pat Pending's lightening rod."
I glanced at Joyce, and she at me, then both of us at Pending.
"But, Pat," I exclaimed, "that's ridiculous! Ben Franklin invented the lightning rod two hundred years ago."
"I said lightening," retorted my redheaded friend, "not lightning. My invention doesn't conduct electricity to the ground, but from it." He brandished a slim baton which until then I had assumed to be an ordinary walking-stick. "With this," he claimed, "I can make things weigh as much or as little as I please!"