"Hmm. Never see'd the innards o' one o' these things afore. Interestin', ain't it?"
His lean fingers began weaving among the gleaming entrails. A tiny crease appeared over his right eye. He muttered as he pushed and jiggled and explored.
"This one goes there; that one goes there. 'Pears like—Well, I'll be durned!"
Something clicked, and his fingers made a twisting motion. He grinned at me.
"How d'you make 'er talk, Jim?"
"She doesn't. She's a deaf mute. But that vernier on the left—"
He turned it. My long-silent radio went, "Phweeee-gwobble-gwobble!"—and became coherent. Strains of hot jive assaulted my eardrums. I moaned.
"Hank, do you know everything? The repairman who looked at it said it would never work again. He said—"
"He jest wanted to sell you a new one," consoled my friend. "I kinda figgered as how adjustin' that little hunk o' metal would fix it. You see—"
But I never got to see. For at that moment my eyes went wobbly all of a sudden. Out of nowhere came a brilliant light, flooding the room with blinding intensity. There was no sound; just that sharp, bright glare—and my arms tingled with a sort of electric vibration.