"Wh--well, yes, if you say so. But--you know what this means, Bill! _Why?_" Morrow looked at him, coldly. "Suppose you mind your own business?" Borgesdorf tensed behind his desk. The friendliness faded slowly from his gaze. "All right," he said abruptly. "But if there's anything wrong around here, I think you should tell me about it." "Don't worry about it," Morrow sneered. "I'm quitting and that's that. Keep your dirty nose out of it." Borgesdorf's big, fleshy face reddened slightly, but that was all. He didn't say anything for a few minutes. Then he gave a barely perceptible nod. "Very well, Morrow. That's all." "Sure." Morrow wheeled and stalked out. Two days later, it was little Petersen. Petersen was a wizened, little guy nearly sixty years old; he'd been playing around with radio when it was a crystal and the cat's whiskers. He had consternation written all over his seamed face as he came shuffling up to Morrow. Morrow could almost hear the discussing that had gone on between him and Borgesdorf--Petersen frowning worriedly as the chief said, _I couldn't get a thing out of him, Pete. Can't understand it at all. See what you can get out of him, will you?_ So here was little Pete. "Hear you're quittin' us, Bill," he drawled nasally. "What about it?" Morrow retorted, cursing himself mentally. Pete was a nice, old guy--everybody in the labs liked him. Morrow liked him, too ... but this was different. "Nobody's done anything against you, have they?" Pete complained. "You're throwing away a whole lot, son. It won't be gotten back easy." His shrewd, little eyes watched Morrow, pensively. "The country needs young fellas like you now, Bill--" Morrow forced the sneer across his face again. "That's just too damn' bad," he said evenly. Pete's eyes narrowed. "You're talkin' like a commie--" Morrow lashed out. The back of his hand smacked across the little man's mouth. "Beat it," he said huskily. "Beat it, you damned little shrimp." Pete stared at him for a moment, then turned slowly and walked away. Instantly, Mart Sumter came stalking across the lab. Sumter was big, broad-shouldered, with muscles bulging against his stained smock. He stopped in front of Morrow, his fists clenched. "If I ever see you do that again," he said softly, "I'll give you the worst beating you've ever had in your life!" Morrow returned his angry glare, then whirled and went back to his work. "You heard me, didn't you?" Sumter's breath whispered on his neck. "I heard you," Morrow rasped. "Don't forget it." Then Sumter strode away. Morrow grinned shakily. He was certainly getting what he deserved! * * * * * At home, an idea was rapidly taking on form and dimension in his mind. He set up his drafting board, collected his inks, and worked doggedly through the night, etching out diagrams that showed--theoretically, at least--how his idea would work. At midnight, he would show up at Switzer's Cafe to walk Gwyn home.