[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Anybody who shunned a Cure needed his
head examined--assuming he had one left!
Henry Infield placed the insulated circlet on his head gently. The
gleaming rod extended above his head about a foot, the wires from it
leading down into his collar, along his spine and finally out his pants
leg to a short metallic strap that dragged on the floor.
Clyde Morgan regarded his partner. "Suppose--just suppose--you _were_
serious about this, why not just the shoes?"
Infield turned his soft blue eyes to the black and tan oxfords with the
very thick rubber soles. "They might get soaked through."
Morgan took his foot off the chair behind the desk and sat down.
"Suppose they were soaked through and you were standing on a metal
plate--steps or a manhole cover--what good would your lightning rod do
you then?"