The eyes of Sandy Thomas needed only jet propulsion to become flying saucers.
"Isn't he wonderful, Mr. Mallory?" she gasped.
But her enthusiasm wasn't contagious. I glowered at Pending coldly.
"Oh, come now, Pat!" I scoffed. "You can't really believe that yourself. After all, there are such things as basic principles. Weight is not a variable factor. And so far as I know, Congress hasn't repealed the Law of Gravity."
Pat sighed regretfully.
"You're always so hard to convince, Mr. Mallory," he complained. "But—oh, well! Take this."
He handed me the baton. I stared at it curiously. It looked rather like a British swagger stick: slim, dainty, well balanced. But the ornamental gadget at its top was not commonplace. It seemed to be a knob or a dial of some kind, divided into segments scored with vernier markings. I gazed at Pending askance.
"Well, Pat? What now?"
"How much do you weigh, Mr. Mallory?"
"One sixty-five," I answered.