"What about the other package?" I asked him then.
"Insurance," he said. "Come out on the setback."
He placed the last package on the mosaic tile of the terrace, untied
its string, flipped open the edge of the Benson wrapping and jumped
back.
It was an NYC police helicopter.
We potrayed it back from the Sands. Suitably wrapped, of course.
That was a month ago. Most of it never came out in the papers. Nothing
of Benson's invention. C. I. thought it should be squelched, at least
until Benson and the boys get back from Mars.
Which would be the end except for the packages. Yes, Benson left a
gross of them with me and I've been mailing them one a day to the
leaders of the opposition party. I don't truly know what's in them, of
course. But it's very curious that the day before the torchship left
exactly one hundred and forty-four cylinders of hydrogen sulphide were
missing from quartermaster stores. Coincidentally one of my C. I.
friends tells me Benson had him rig up a gross of automatic releases
for gas cylinders.
Adding it up, it could be a good lesson for politicians to keep their
noses out of science.