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“Well, you get up there and tell your story, and I dare say he’ll come out of it.”

“Sure he will. They know he’s got something, and they know they have to have it. But he’s going to go through hell before they give it to him.”

Winstein slid off the desk and stood up. “I hope so. He deserves it. By the way, it’s too bad you couldn’t get a story out of that Sam Skinner character.”

“Yeah. But there’s nothing to it. After all, even the FBI tried to find out if there was anyone at all besides Porter who might know anything about it. No luck. Not even the technicians who worked with him knew anything useful. Skinner didn’t know anything at all.” He told the lie with a perfectly straight face. He didn’t like lying to Winstein, but there was no other way. He hoped he wouldn’t have to lie to the Congressional Committee; perjury was not something he liked doing. The trouble was, if he told the truth, he’d be worse off than if he lied.

He took the plane that night for Washington, and spent the next three days answering questions while he tried to keep his nerves under control. Not once did they even approach the area he wanted them to avoid.

On the plane back, he relaxed, closed his eyes, and, for the first time in days, allowed himself to think about Mr. Samuel Skinner.

* * * * *

The reports from the two detective agencies on the East and West Coasts hadn’t made much sense separately, but together they added up to enough to have made it worth Elshawe’s time to go to Los Angeles and tackle Samuel Skinner personally. He had called Skinner and made an appointment; Skinner had invited him out to his home.

It was a fairly big house, not too new, and it sat in the middle of a lot that was bigger than normal for land-hungry Los Angeles.

Elshawe ran through the scene mentally. He could see Skinner’s mild face and hear his voice saying: “Come in, Mr. Elshawe.”

They went into the living room, and Skinner waved him toward a chair. “Sit down. Want some coffee?”

“Thanks; I’d appreciate it.” While Skinner made coffee, the reporter looked around the room. It wasn’t overly showy, but it showed a sort of subdued wealth. It was obvious that Mr. Skinner wasn’t lacking in comforts.

Skinner brought in the coffee and then sat down, facing Elshawe, in another chair. “Now,” he said bluntly, “what was that remark you made on the phone about showing up Malcom Porter as a phony? I understood that you actually went to Mars on his ship. Don’t you believe the evidence of your own senses?”

“I don’t mean that kind of phony,” Elshawe said. “And you know it. I’ll come to the point. I know that Malcom Porter didn’t invent the Gravito-Inertial Differential Polarizer. You did.”

Skinner’s eyes widened. “Where did you get that information?”

“I can’t tell you my sources, Mr. Skinner. Not yet, anyhow. But I have enough information to tell me that you’re the man. It wouldn’t hold up in court, but, with the additional information you can give me, I think it will.”

Skinner looked baffled, as if not knowing what to say next.

“Mr. Skinner,” Elshawe went on, “a research reporter has to have a little of the crusader in him, and maybe I’ve got more than most. You’ve discovered one of the greatest things in history–or invented it, whatever you want to call it. You deserve to go down in history along with Newton, Watt, Roentgen, Edison, Einstein, Fermi, and all the rest.

“But somehow Malcom Porter stole your invention and he intends to take full credit for it. Oh, I know he’s paid you plenty of money not to make any fuss, and he probably thinks you couldn’t prove anything, anyway. But you don’t have to be satisfied with his conscience money any more. With the backing of Magnum Telenews, you can blow Mister Glory-hound Porter’s phony setup wide open and take the credit you deserve.”