Hamilton had expected to find Ryan in the throes of physical reaction to his bender, but he had not expected such abject mental misery. He said, soothingly, “Sven, you know as well as I do that SPR funds are primarily for the use of its scientists--for their research and experimentation. The only thing that puzzles me is why you went gallivanting off and spilled your large flannel mouth all over New York last night.” Hamilton was prepared for every answer but the one he got. Incredibly, the inventor lifted his bleary eyes to the other’s face and said, “Why shouldn’t I drown my sorrows after blowing all that money and work on a miserable failure? And if I chose to talk about it, that’s my business.” Hamilton felt as if the helirocket had hit an old-fashioned air pocket. The very breath seemed to go out of him. He said, “But according to the reports, your transmitter was a success. It worked.” Sven Ryan made a gesture of disgust. “Sure it worked,” he said, “over one kilometer with a few kilos of dead weight. But you know what I was working for. My whole aim has been to invent some method of transport that will make interplanetary travel economically feasible. But what good is a transporter that cannot send organic life?” He paused to take a whiff of oxygen and his looks and spirits almost visibly improved. “I must have been out of my mind, Park. I ran a dozen extra tests with white mice.” He shook his head wretchedly. “What came out in the receiver was sickening. I felt like a sadist.” “So you took off and got drunk,” said Hamilton. “You wanted to drown your sorrows.” Here, he thought, was a perfect example of the creative, scientific mind--a mind so wrapped up in fulfillment of a dream, in the attainment of a single end, that everything else remained in fuzzy focus. Here was that persistent anomaly, the completely dedicated man who would never cease to be a problem to the more scatter-gunned mass of humanity. It was a problem that ranged all the way from the absentminded professor to the discoverer of new theories and machines that were constantly threatening to disrupt the balances by which other men lived. “Seven years!” said Ryan gloomily. “Seven years and almost three million SPR dollars--and it’s a tragic bust. Do you wonder I blew my top, Park?” He paused again and for an instant his eyes lighted up. “Chief, do you know who I ran into last night? I’m not going to tell you where, but it was--” “It was Ian Harris of the UN, and you stumbled over him at Molly Sadler’s house of joy,” said Hamilton.