"There's no reason to suppose that Wes didn't get a couple of very active elements side by each. We know nothing of the extra-charted elements. We can make 'em, but until we do, what can we know of 'em?" "Well, we didn't lose the station," said Walt. "And business is so punk that tossing the beams won't harm us much; we'll have to spend some time aligning the place again." "We're all here, anyway," agreed Don, looking over the ruined blister laboratory. "But look, Wes, I think you're running on the wrong gear. Anything that can be made with this gadget can be duplicated. Right?" "I guess so." "What we need is a substance that will be stabilized under some sort of electronic pressure. Then it might come unglued when the matter-dingbat beam hit it. Follow?" Wes Farrell thought for a few seconds. "We might make an electronic alloy," he said. "A what?" "A substance that is overbalanced as goes electrons. They will be inserted by concocting the stuff under extremely high electron pressure. Make it on some sort of station that has an intrinsic charge of ten to the fiftieth electron volts or so; that'll make queer alloys, I'll bet. Then it can be stabilized by interalloying something with a dearth of electrons. The two metals will be miscible, say, when liquid, and so their electron balance will come out even. They are cooled under this stress and so forth. When the disintegrator beam hits them, it will liberate the electrons and the whole thing will go plooey." "Looks like a matter of finding the right stuff," said Walt. "Don, what about running the station charge up as Wes says?" "No dice. The station is too big. Besides, the charge-changing gear would be overworked all over the station to maintain the charge, once made. "Take the _Relay Girl_ out and try it, Wes." "Come along?" "We don't mind if we do," grinned Walt, winking at Don. "There'll be nothing didding about business until we get a medium of exchange." * * * * * The Reverend Thomas Doylen speared Keg Johnson with a fishy glance and thundered: "A plague on both your houses!" Johnson grinned unmercifully. "You didn't get that one out of the Bible," he said. "But it is none the less true," came the booming reply. "So what? Mind telling me what I'm doomed to eternal damnation for?" "Sacrilege and blasphemy," exploded Doylen. "I came to plead with you. I wanted to bring you into the fold--to show you the error of your sinful way. And what do I find? I find, guarding the city, a massive facade of mother-of-pearl and platinum. Solid gold bars on gates which swing wide at the approach. A bearded man in a white cloak recording those who enter. Once inside--"