Nelson S. Bond

“ I glanced at Joyce, and she at me, then both of us at Pending.
"But, Pat," I exclaimed, "that's ridiculous! Ben Franklin invented the lightning rod two hundred years ago."
"I said lightening," retorted my redheaded friend, "not lightning. My invention doesn't conduct electricity to the ground, but from it." He brandished a slim baton which until then I had assumed to be an ordinary walking-stick. "With this," he claimed, "I can make things weigh as much or as little as I please!"
The eyes of Sandy Thomas needed only jet propulsion to become flying saucers. ”

“ What is your invention used for?"
"Eh?" said the redhead.
"It's not enough that an idea is practicable," I pointed out. "It must also be practical to be of any value in this frenzied modern era. What good is your invention?"
"What good," demanded Joyce, "is a newborn baby?"
"Don't change the subject," I suggested. "Or come to think of it, maybe you should. At the diaper level, life is just one damp thing after another. But how to turn Pat's brainchild into cold, hard cash—that's the question before the board now. ”

“ Pat shook his head.
"No, Mr. Mallory. The rod was set to cancel 118 pounds. The bag weighed less than twenty. It will go miles beyond the reach of any airplane before it settles into an orbit around earth."
"Well, there goes my dreamed-of fortune," I said sadly. "Accompanied by the fading strains of an unplayed wedding march. I'm sorry, Joyce."
"Isn't there one thing you folks are overlooking?" asked Sandy Thomas. ”

“ And I can't see any sense in humans trying to fly with jet flames scorching their base of operations.
"Elevators? Derricks? Building cranes? Possible. But lifting a couple hundred pounds is one thing. Lifting a few tons is a horse of a different color.
"No, Pat," I continued, "I don't see just how—"
Sandy Thomas squeaked suddenly and grasped my arm.
"That's it, Mr. Mallory!" she cried. "That's it!"
"Huh? What's what?"
"You wanted to know how Pat could make money from his invention. You've just answered your own question."
"I have?"
"Horses! Horse racing, to be exact. ”

“ The colt was simply skimming home, and he was holding on for dear life to make sure he didn't blow off the horse's back. The result was a foregone conclusion, of course. Tapwater crossed the finish line nine lengths ahead, setting a new track record.
The crowd went wild. Over the hubbub I clutched Pat's arm and bawled, "I'll go collect our winnings. Hurry down to the track and swap that lightening rod for the real bat we brought along. He'll have to weigh out again, you know. Scoot!" ”

“ The United States Patent Office is my beat. There's one nice thing to be said about working for the bewhiskered old gentleman in the star-spangled stovepipe and striped britches: it's permanent. Once you get your name inscribed on the list of Civil Service employees it takes an act of Congress to blast it off again. ”

“ Joyce shook her head sorrowfully.
"Friends," she intoned, "let us all bow our heads. This is a moment of great tragedy. The only man in the world who ever knew what electricity is—and he has forgotten!"
"That's the whole point," agreed Pending. "No one knows what electricity really is. All we know is how to use it. Einstein has demonstrated that the force of gravity and electrical energy are kindred; perhaps different aspects of a common phenomenon. That was my starting point."
"So this rod, which enables you to defy the law of gravity, is electrical?"
"Electricaceous," corrected Pat. ”

“ A series of disentrigulated helicosities, activated by hypermagnetation, set up a disruptular wave motion which results in—counter-gravity!"
And there you are! Ninety-nine percent of the time Pat Pending talks like a normal human being. ”

“ And some of Pat's money, too."
"But have you forgotten," she insisted, "that we won the race? Of course the track officials were a wee bit suspicious when your suitcase took off. But they couldn't prove anything. So they paid me the Gold Stakes prize. If we split it four ways, we all make a nice little profit.
"Or," she added, "if you and Joyce want to make yours a double share, we could split it three ways.
"Or," she continued hopefully, "if Pat wants to, we could make two double shares, and split it fifty-fifty?" ”

“ We'll do the rest."
"How about setting the dial, Don?" asked Joyce.
"Pat will do that just before the horses move onto the track. Now let's get going. It's weigh-in time."
We moved to the scales with our rider. He stepped aboard the platform, complete with silks and saddle, and the spinner leaped to a staggering 102, whereupon the officials started gravely handing him little leather sacks.
"What's this?" I whispered to Sandy. "Prizes for malnutrition? He must have won all the blackjacks east of the Mississippi."
"The handicap," she whispered back. "Lead weights at one pound each." ”