"What about the other stuff?" Peterson was asked, referring to the
brownish "milk" subsequently identified as coming from a dainty young
cow known as Melody Buttercup Greenbrier IV.

"One thing at a time," replied Peterson. "Let's find out what we have
here before we got involved in the second problem."

At 9:00 p.m., that night, Peterson was called to the radiation labs. He
was met at the door by a glazed-eyed physicist who led him back to his
office.

He motioned Peterson to a seat and then handed him a sheaf of
photographic papers and other charts. Each of the photo sheets had a
clear, white outline of a test beaker surrounded by a solid field of
black. Two of the papers were all white.

"I don't believe it, Floyd," the physicist said, running his hands
through his hair. "I've seen it, I've done it, I've tested it, proven
it, and I still don't believe it."

Peterson riffled the sheaf of papers and waited expectantly.

"You don't believe what, Fred?" he asked.

The physicist leaned over and tapped the papers in Peterson's hands.
"We've subjected that crazy stuff to every source and kind of high and
low energy radiation we can produce here and that means just about
everything short of triggering an H-device on it. We fired alphas,
gammas, betas, the works, in wide dispersion, concentrated beam and
just plain exposure.

"Not so much as one neutron of any of them went beyond the glass
surrounding that forsaken slop.

"They curved around it, Floyd. They curved around it."

The physicist leaned his head on the desk. "Nothing should react like
that," he sobbed. He struggled for composure as Peterson stared dazedly
at the test sheets.

"That's not the whole story," the physicist continued. He walked to
Peterson's side and extracted the two all-white sheets.

"This," he said brokenly, "represents a sheet of photographic paper
dipped in that crud and then allowed to dry before being bombarded with
radiation. And this," he waved the other sheet, "is a piece of photo
paper in the center of a panel protected by another sheet of ordinary
typing paper coated with that stuff."

Peterson looked up at him. "A radiation-proof liquid," he said in awed
tones.

The other man nodded dumbly.

"Eight years of university," the physicist whispered to himself. "Six
years in summer schools. Four fellowships. Ten years in research.

"All shot to hell," he screamed, "by a stinking, hayburning cow."

Peterson patted him gent