A swift look inside gave me a virulent case of the quim-quim. Here was no simple coin-snatcher. The answer buttons were switches. From each one ran leads to a panel which bristled with tiny vacuum tubes. It was uncomfortably remindful of the latest in electronic calculators which were rapidly gaining the reputation of being, "man's other brain."
"Tell me, Miss—"
"Doctor Calicoo," she prompted me pleasantly, as she slipped the tiny test prods of a miniature meter into the machine's mercenary heart.
"Tell me, Dr. Calicoo, how may I get in touch with the supplier of this equipment?"
She handed me a card and with it a slightly interested look that dropped my stability quotient at least three points.
The card was less interesting than the expression in her provocative blue eyes. I broke down and asked, "Doctor of what?"
"Philosophy. Electronics and Mathematics. You don't run a hotel," she said shrewdly.
"Make a liar out of Mr. Dennithy if you choose," I told her, "but would you be kind enough to take me to," I glanced at the card, "to Dr. John Cunningham?"
"I'll take you," she nodded, then her voice hardened a little, "but if you are just a snooper or a patent-jumper it will be no favor."
She invited candor, so she got it. I showed her my badge. Her mouth pulled into a startled little "o," like an oversized, pitted cherry.