e moved grandly toward the Rehab Shop proper, which opened off the
quarters he lived in--very much as a doctor's office is apt to open off
his living quarters.

"We follow?" asked Lecky zestfully. "You plan something?"

"Natural!" said Sergeant Bellews largely.

He led the way into the Rehab Shop, which was dark and shadowy, and only
very dimly lighted by flickering, wavering lights of many machines
waiting as if hopefully to be called on for action. There were the
shelves of machines not yet activated. Sergeant Bellews led the way
toward his desk. There was a vacuum cleaner on it, on standby. He put it
down on the floor.

Lecky watched him with some eagerness. The others came in, Howell dourly
and Graves wiping his moustache.

The sergeant considered his domain.

"We'll be happy to help you," said Lecky.

"Thanks," said the sergeant. "I'm under orders to help you, too, y'know.
Just supposing you asked me to whip up something to analyze what Betsy
receives, so it can be checked on that it is a new wave-type."

"Can you do that?" demanded Graves. "We were supposed to work on
that--but so far we've absolutely nothing to go on!"

The sergeant waved his hand negligently.

"You got something now. Betsy's a Mahon-modified device. Every receiver
that picked up one of those crazy broadcasts broke down before it was
through. She takes 'em in her stride--especial with Al and Gus to help
her. Wouldn't it be reasonable to guess that Mahon machines
are--uh--especial adapted to handle intertemporal communication?"

"Very reasonable!" said Howell dourly. "Very! The broadcast said that
the wave-type produced unpredictable surges of current. Ordinary
machines do find it difficult to work with whatever type of radiation
that can be."

"Betsy chokes off those surges," observed the sergeant. "With Gus and Al
to help, she don't have no trouble. We hadn't ought to need to make any
six transmitters if we put Mahon-unit machines together for the job!"

"Quite right," agreed Lecky, mildly. "And it is odd--"

"Yeah," said the sergeant. "It's plenty odd my
great-great-great-grandkids haven't got sense enough to do it
themselves!"

* * * * *

He went to a shelf and brought down a boxed machine,--straight from the
top-secret manufactory of Mahon units. It had never been activated. Its
standby light did not glow. Sergeant Bellews ripped off the carton and
said reflectively:

"You hate to turn off