The only sounds in the room were the tinkle of glassware and the occasional moan of utter self-dislike. Channing sat with his glass in his hand and made faces as he lifted it. Franks matched his mood. Both of them were of the type that drinks only when feeling good because it made them feel better. When they drank while feeling low, it made them feel lower, and at the present time they were about as far down as they could get. They knew it; they took the liquor more as a local anaesthetic than anything else. Arden, whose disappointment was not quite as personal as theirs, was not following them drink for drink, but she knew how they felt and was busying herself with glass, ice, and bottle as they needed it. It was hours since the final let-down in the court. They knew that they could appeal the case, and probably after a hard fight they would win. It might be a year or so before they did, and in the meantime they would lose the initial control over the matter transmitter. They both felt that having the initial introduction in their hands would mean less headache than having Terran Electric exploit the thing to the bitter end as quickly as possible. The fact of sunrise--something they never saw on Venus Equilateral--did not interest them one bit. It grew light outside, and as the first glimmerings of sunrise came, a knock on their door came also. "Mice," hissed Walt. "S'nock on door." "Mice knocking on door?" "Naw." "Mice gnawing on door?" "It's Wes Farrell," announced Arden, opening the door. "Let'm in. S'all right, Wes. Anyone c'n make mishtake." "He's sober." "Gettum drink," said Don. "Gettum drink--gettum drunk." "Look, fellows, I'm sorry about that fool mistake. I've been working on the judge's ticker. I've fixed it." "Fitched it?" asked Walt, opening his eyes wide. "Close 'em--Y'll bleed t' death," gurgled Don. Farrell dangled the judge's watch before them. It was perfect. It ticked, it ran, and though they couldn't possibly have seen the hands from a distance of more than nine inches, it was keeping perfect time. Don shook his head, moaned at the results of the shaking, put both hands on his head to hold it down, and looked again. "How'ja do it?" "Made a recording of the transmitted signal. Fixed the power-supply filters first. Then took the recording--" "On whut?" spluttered Walt. "On a disk like the alloy-tuners in the communications beams. Worked fine. Anyway, I recorded the signal, and then started to buck out the ripple by adding some out-of-phase hum to cancel the ripple." "Shounds reas'n'ble." "Worked. I had a couple of messes, though." "Messessesesss?" hissed Walt, losing control over his tongue.