The dielectric constant could be varied at will by a simple electric field normal to the applied voltage gradient—a field which could be generated by a couple of dry cells if need be—and ranged from a hundred thousand to about three billion. For all practical purposes, here was the ultimate dielectric.
"We did it!" Friedrichs slapped Lancaster's back till it felt that the ribs must crack. "We have it!"
"Whooppee!" yelled Karen.
Suddenly they had joined hands and were dancing idiotically around the induction furnace. Lancaster clasped Rakkan's talons without caring that it was a Martian. They sang then, sang till heads appeared at the door and the glassware shivered.
Here we go 'round the mulberry bush,
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush—
It called for a celebration. The end of a Project meant no more than filing a last report and waiting for the next assignment, but they ran things differently out here. Somebody broke out a case of Venusian aguacaliente. Somebody else led the way to a storeroom, tossed its contents into the hall, and festooned it with used computer tape. Rakkan forgot his Martian dignity and fiddled for a square dance, with Isaacson doing the calling. The folk from the other end of the station swarmed in till the place overflowed. It was quite a party.
Hours later, Lancaster was hazily aware of lying stretched on the floor. His head was in Karen's lap and she was stroking his hair. The hardy survivors were following the Dufreres in French drinking songs, which are the best in the known universe. Rakkan's fiddle wove in and out, a lovely accompaniment to voices that were untrained but made rich and alive by triumph.
"Sur ma tomb' je veux qu'on inscrive:
'Ici-git le roi des buveurs.'
Sur ma tomb' je veux qu'on inscrive:
'Ici-git le roi des buveurs.
Ici-git, oui, oui, oui,
Ici-git, non, non, non—'"
Lancaster knew that he had never been really happy before.