"Not so much as one neutron of any of them went beyond the glass surrounding that forsaken slop.
"They curved around it, Floyd. They curved around it."
The physicist leaned his head on the desk. "Nothing should react like that," he sobbed. He struggled for composure as Peterson stared dazedly at the test sheets.
"That's not the whole story," the physicist continued. He walked to Peterson's side and extracted the two all-white sheets.
"This," he said brokenly, "represents a sheet of photographic paper dipped in that crud and then allowed to dry before being bombarded with radiation. And this," he waved the other sheet, "is a piece of photo paper in the center of a panel protected by another sheet of ordinary typing paper coated with that stuff."
Peterson looked up at him. "A radiation-proof liquid," he said in awed tones.
The other man nodded dumbly.
"Eight years of university," the physicist whispered to himself. "Six years in summer schools. Four fellowships. Ten years in research.
"All shot to hell," he screamed, "by a stinking, hayburning cow."
Peterson patted him gently on the shoulder. "It's all right, Fred. Don't take it so hard. It could be worse."