"Hot dog!" Gramps purred like an impossibly ancient kitten.
"We'll agree with them. Okay, there's a weapon here, a pretty awful thing. We'll talk over our intercom and let them know we know it too."
"Uh-uh," said Clair, definitely interested. "They'll probably be listening, just like us. Go on, Jerry, let's hear more."
"Sure. And we'll go a step further."
"I got you!" Gramps cried. "We'll really find the weapon." There just was no convincing a die-hard romantic who had fought in the last war.
"Yes and no," I said. "There is no weapon, none here and none anyplace else in the Belt. Only we'll make believe that we find one. A war of nerves, Gramps. Maybe we can scare them the hell off this planet."
"Hmm-m," said Gramps. "I knew you'd come around to my way of thinking."
Because we all liked the idea, we continued to speak of it for hours, and this is the way things boiled down.
Item. It had to be an awful weapon, something that would frighten a man and make the little hackles stand up on the back of his neck, and something which apparently could be applied most readily here on 4270. They were convinced that a weapon did exist, good: they'd believe almost anything we could concoct.