"Sure did. Made a hand sheet in a twelve-by-twelve inch mold. Pressed it
out, dried it, then got busy again so I couldn't test it for a week.
When I did I started working nights to see if I could duplicate my
results. Just finished this morning. Here's the hand sheet, the second
one."
He handed me a sheet of paper, snow-white in color. I put aside my
pencil and notebook to examine it. As I took it in my hand it was
obvious that it was something unusual. It was softer than a cleansing
tissue, and probably even more flexible. I rubbed it between my fingers,
and it had the most remarkable feel of any paper I had ever felt--soft
and clinging and cool, and exceedingly pleasant. I knew the paper
chemists called this property "hand." Callahan's paper had the most
remarkable hand I had ever seen.
"Tear it in half," Callahan said.
* * * * *
I took the sheet between my thumbs and forefingers and gingerly pulled,
expecting the light and soft sheet to part easily. Nothing happened. I
pulled harder, and still nothing. I smiled at Callahan, got a better
grip, and gave it a yank. Then I twisted opposite corners around my
fingers and frankly pulled at it. The absurd sheet refused to tear, and
I realized how ridiculous I must look to Callahan to be unable to tear a
flimsy sheet of paper. I suppose I lost my temper a little. I gathered
as much of the paper as I could in each hand, bent over to put my hands
on the inside of my knees, and pulled until I heard my back muscles
crack. I let out my breath explosively and looked helplessly at
Callahan.