A bit at a time, the idea took hold of Marc that the job could be immensely facilitated if only the steel girders, the sections of concrete, could be made buoyant ... at least temporarily ... so that they might be floated into position rather than lifted. Eventually came the time when the idea had lain long enough in Marc's mind that it seemed to make sense. Of course it was a fantastic idea, but the really fantastic thing about it was that no little men in white jackets arrived on the scene to carry its originator gently but firmly away to some quiet institution. And yet time proved Marc to be not quite so mad as he seemed. Subsequent experiments testified to his rather extraordinary if distorted vision. In a year's time, hit and miss, he had managed to reduce the weight of scraps of iron and steel by actual test ... and this without diminishing their bulk by so much as a fraction of an inch. Of course, Marc had to admit, both of these materials had clung doggedly to a nasty disinclination to actually defy the laws of gravity, but he was convinced that he was well on the way to breaking their will in the matter. Months of paper work followed, tedious calculations, corrected formula. At last he was ready to prepare what he was positive would be his final and conclusive experiment. Ingredients were carefully distilled and combined, in exact amounts and weights. And then, on the very night that Julie had manoeuvered the exclusive Daughters of the Golden Gardenia into her living room with an eye to arranging a society bazaar, Marc retired to his basement sanctuary, carefully closed the door, added the final chemical to the growing mixture, and blew the bejesus out of everything. If the laws of gravity had finally been broken it was only by virtue of rude detonation. The experiment, in its major aspect, was a dud. All these things passed fluidly through Marc's mind as he lay awake gazing into the silver clarity of the night. He wondered at his own serenity in the face of so much disappointment and could not account for it. A strange faith in the future, unnourished by tangible fact, had begun to grow within him, a definite, thriving growth sustained by the night and the moonlight. How could he know it was the weed growth of violence? Then Marc stirred and turned his head at a listening angle. The night was no longer silent; the stillness had been broken by a strand of distant melody. Faintly, a voice had begun to sing, weaving a curious, indistinct thread of song into the illusive fabric of the night. For a moment Marc wondered if he only imagined it, but when he covered his ears with his hands, the melody stopped. He listened again. Slowly, the song grew louder, more distinct. Marc sat bolt upright in bed. "Well, I'll be damned!" he said.