It was Laura's voice. I sighed in relief. It could have been old Abel, after all.
"Laura? This is Chuck."
Her voice dropped. "Daddy's right here. I can't talk very much."
"Tell me—what the devil has he done? You should have seen those things drinking up the lightning!"
"I did," she said. "I know what you mean."
"Is the gateway still open?"
"Yes. They're still coming through. Chuck, I—I don't know what's going to happen. I—no, Daddy!"
There was a sound of a little scuffle, and then the phone went dead. I stared at the silent receiver for a second, then let it thunk back on the cradle. I sat down on the edge of my bed and stared at my soggy socks for a long while.
Abel Harwood fit the classic description of a crackpot perfectly. My status as an authentic scientist—if only an underpaid engineer—gave me every right to make that statement.
I had been doing some experimental force-field work, and when I met Laura she told me her father would be interested in talking to me about my work. So I had dinner at their home one night, and started talking about my project—and then old Harwood started talking about his.