“Have you ever smelled musk?” groaned Sills. “It will give off an aroma for an indefinite period without losing any appreciable weight. We’ve come up against something like that.” The two ruminated in silence for a while, wincing whenever the wind brought a vagrant waft of ammonium vapor to them, and then Taylor said in a low voice, “When they finally trace the trouble to the spoon, and find out who made it, I’m afraid we’ll be sued--or maybe thrown in jail.” Sills’ face lengthened. “I wish I’d never seen the damned stuff! It’s brought nothing but trouble.” His tortured spirit gave way and he sobbed loudly. Taylor patted him on the back mournfully. “It’s not as bad as all that, of course. The discovery will make you famous and you’ll be able to demand your own price, working at any industrial lab in the country. Then, too, you’re a cinch to win the Nobel Prize.” “That’s right,” Sills smiled again, “and I may find a way to counteract the odor, too. I hope so.” “I hope so, too,” said Taylor feelingly. “Let’s go back. I think they’ve managed to remove the spoon by now.” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1940 issue of _Future Fiction_ magazine.]