or a dialof some kind, divided into segments scored with vernier markings. Igazed at Pending askance.
"Well, Pat? What now?"
"How much do you weigh, Mr. Mallory?"
"One sixty-five," I answered.
"You're sure of that?"
"I'm not. But my bathroom scales appeared to be. This morning. Why?"
"Do you think Miss Joyce could lift you?"
I said thoughtfully, "Well, that's an idea. But I doubt it. She won'teven let me try to support _her_."
"I'm serious, Mr. Mallory. Do you think she could lift you with onehand?"
"Don't be silly! Of course not. Nor could you."
"There's where you're wrong," said Pending firmly. "She can--and will."
He reached forward suddenly and twisted the metal cap on the stick in myhands. As he did so, I loosed a cry of alarm and almost dropped thebaton. For instantaneously I experienced a startling, flighty giddiness,a sudden loss of weight that made me feel as if my soles were treadingon sponge rubber, my shoulders sprouting wings.
"Hold on to it!" cried Pat. Then to Joyce, "Lift him, Miss Joyce."
Joyce faltered, "How? Like th-this?" and touched a finger to my midriff.Immediately my feet left the floor. I started flailing futilely totrample six inches of ozone back to the solid floorboards. To no avail.With no effort whatever Joyce raised me high above her head until mydazed dome was shedding dandruff on the ceiling!
"Well, Mr. Mallory," said Pat, "do you believe me now?"
"Get me down out of here!" I howled. "You _know_ I can't stand highplaces!"
"You now weigh less than ten pounds--"
"Never mind the statistics. I feel like a circus balloon. How do I getdown again?"
"Turn the knob on the cane," advised Pat, "to your normal weight.Careful, now! _Not so fast!_"
His warning came too late. I hit the deck with a resounding thud, andthe cane came clattering after. Pat retrieved it hurriedly, inspected itto make sure it was not damaged. I glared at him as I picked myself offthe floor.
"You might show some interest in _me_," I grumbled. "I doubt if thatstick will need a liniment rubdown tonight. Okay, Pat. You're right andI'm wrong, as you usually are. That modern variation of a witch'sbroomstick _does_ operate. Only--how?"
"That dial at the top governs weight," explained Pat. "When you turnit--"
"Skip that. I know how it is operated. I want to know what makes itwork?"
"Well," explained Pat, "I'm not certain I can make it clear, but it'sall tied in with the elemental scientific problems of mass, weight,gravity and electric energy. What _is_ electricity, for example--"
"I used to know," I frowned. "But I forget."
Joyce shook her head sorrowfully.
"Friends," she intoned, "let us all bow our heads. This is a moment ofgreat tragedy. The only man in the world who ever knew what electricityis--and he has forgotten!"
"That's the whole point," agreed Pending. "No one knows whatelectricity really is. All we know is how to use it. Einstein hasdemonstrated that the force of gravity and electrical energy arekindred; perhaps different aspects of a common phenomenon. That was mystarting point."
"So this rod, which enables you to defy the law of gravity, iselectrical?"
"Electricaceous," corrected Pat. "You see, I have transmogrified thepolarifity of certain ingredular cellulations. A series ofdisentrigulated helicosities, activated by hypermagnetation, set up adisruptular wave motion which results in--counter-gravity!"
And there you are! Ninety-nine percent of the time Pat Pending talkslike a normal human being. But ask him to explain the mechanism of oneof his inventions and linguistic hell breaks loose. He begins jabberinglike a schizophrenic parrot reading a Sanskrit dictionary backward! Isighed and surrendered all hope of ever actually learning _how_ hisgreat new discovery worked. I turned my thoughts to more importantmatters.
"Okay, Pat. We'll dismiss the details as trivial and get down to brasstacks. What is your invention used for?"
"Eh?" said the redhead.
"It's not enough that an idea is practicable," I pointed out. "It mustalso be practical to be of any value in this frenzied modern era. Whatgood is your invention?"
"What good," demanded Joyce, "is a newborn baby?"
"Don't change the subject," I suggested. "Or come to think of it, maybeyou should. At the diaper level, life is just one damp thing afteranother. But how to turn Pat's brainchild into cold, hard cash--that'sthe question before the board now.
"Individual flight _a la_ Superman? No dice. I can testify from personalexperience that once you get up there you're completely out of control.And I can't see any sense in humans trying to fly with jet flamesscorching their base of operations.
"Elevators? Derricks? Building cranes? Possible. But lifting a couplehundred pounds is one thing. Lifting a few tons is a horse of adifferent color.
"No, Pat," I continued, "I don't see just how--"
Sandy Thomas squeaked suddenly and grasped my arm.
"That's it, Mr. Mallory!" she cried. "That's it!"
"Huh? What's what?"
"You wanted to know how Pat could make money from his invention. You'vejust answered your own question."
"I have?"
"Horses! Horse racing, to be exact. You've heard of handicaps, haven'tyou?"
"I'm overwhelmed with them," I nodded wearily. "A secretary who repulsesmy honorable advances, a receptionist who squeals in my ear--"
"Listen, Mr. Mallory, what's the last thing horses do before they go tothe post?"
"Check the tote board," I said promptly, "to find out if I've got anymoney on them. Horses hate me. They've formed an equine conspiracy toprove to me the ancient adage that a fool and his money are soonparted."
"Wait a minute!" chimed in Joyce thoughtfully. "I know what Sandy means.They weigh in. Is that right?"
"Exactly! The more weight a horse is bearing, the slower it runs. That'sthe purpose of handicapping. But if a horse that was supposed to becarrying more than a hundred pounds was actually only carrying_ten_--Well, you see?"
Sandy paused, breathless. I stared at her with a gathering respect.
"Never underestimate the power of a woman," I said, "when it comes todevising new and ingenious methods of perpetrating petty larceny.There's only one small fly in the ointment, so far as I can see. How dowe convince some racehorse owner he should become a party to this gentlefelony?"
"Oh, you don't have to," smiled Sandy cheerfully. "I'm alreadyconvinced."
"You? You own a horse?"
"Yes. Haven't you ever heard of Tapwater?"
"Oh, sure! That drip's running all the time!"
Joyce tossed me a reproving glance.
"This is a matter of gravity, Donald," she stated, "and you keeptreating it with levity. Sandy, do you _really_ own Tapwater? He's thecolt who won the Monmouth Futurity, isn't he?"
"That's right. And four other starts this season. That's been our bigtrouble. He shows such promise that the judges have placed him under aterrific weight handicap. To run in next week's Gold Stakes, forinstance, he would have to carry 124 pounds. I was hesitant to enter himbecause of that. But with Pat's new invention--" She turned to Pat, eyesglowing--"he could enter and win!"
Pat said uncertainly, "I don't know. I don't like gambling. And itdoesn't seem quite ethical, somehow--"
I asked Sandy, "Suppose he ran carrying 124. What would be the probableodds?"
"High," she replied, "_Very_ high. Perhaps as high as forty to one."
"In that case," I decided, "it's not only ethical, it's a moralobligation. If you're opposed to gambling, Pat, what better way can youthink of to put the parimutuels out of business?"
"And besides," Sandy pointed out, "this would be a wonderful opportunityto display your new discovery before an audience of thousands. Well,Pat? What do you say?"
Pat hesitated, caught a glimpse of Sandy's pleading eyes, and was lost.
"Very well," he said. "We'll do it. Mr. Mallory, enter Tapwater in
theGold Stakes. We'll put on the most spectaceous exhibition in the historyof gambilizing!"
* * * * *
Thus it was that approximately one week later our piratical little crewwas assembled once again, this time in the paddock at