"Yeah," grinned Channing. "Here's to electrons. Y'know, Walt, I was a little afraid that space might become a sort of wild West show, with the ships bristling with space guns and betatrons and stuff like that. In which case you'd have been a stinking benefactor. But if the recoil is as bad as the output--and Newton said that it must be--I can't see ships cluttering up their insides with stuff that'll screw up their instruments and driver tubes. But the thing that amuses me about the whole thing is the total failure you produced." "Failure?" asked Walt. "What failed?" "Don't you know? Have you forgotten? Do you realize that spaceships are still ducking around meteors instead of blasting them out of the way with the Franks Electron Gun? Or did you lose sight of the fact that this dingbat started out in life as a meteor-sweeper?" Walt glared over the rim of his glass, but he had nothing to say. THE END.