"Look, Mr. Biggs, if you've been thinking, this is where I get off.
Don't tell me or I'll catch the contagion. I'm just a hard-working bug
pounder--"
"--and I think I know a way," he continued eagerly, "to put an end to
space radio transmission difficulties. They're using the wrong metal in
the audio plates, _that's_ the trouble! The seleno-aluminum alloy was
all right for radio in the early days of television, but space-flight
demands a sturdier, and at the same time more sensitive receptor."
"Like," I demanded, "what? Comet-tails, maybe?"
"Uranium," explained Biggs simply. "As I told you, I've been
experimenting. And I've discovered that uranium, no longer as rare and
expensive as it was when audio plates were first invented, is the ideal
plate."
"It's been nice," I said sarcastically, "seeing you, Mr. Biggs. Any
schoolchild knows that mobile electrons account for the electrical
conducting ability of metals. And as the number of electrons per atom
increases, metallic properties decrease; the metals become harder, more
brittle, less ductile and poorer conductors. Uranium, my friend, would
be what we Universal-hurlers call, in our simple patois, a first class
'stinkeroo'."
Biggs flushed faintly, and his liquescent larynx leaped in a lopsided
lurch. There was a hurt look in his eyes.
"Would you be convinced if I showed you?"
"St. Louis," I said.
"I--I beg your pardon?"
"I'm from there. It's in the State of Missouri." But I gave my
slumbrous receiving set a glance of despair. "Still--this thing's not
working. If you'd like to try out your new floppola--"
"I've got it in my quarters," he said delightedly. "I'll go get it
right away!" And he started toward the door.