Andrew Bleeker, research director of Hope Chemicals, had more than once referred to his laboratory as "the soap opera," "the sideshow," or "the country club." He took instant umbrage, however, if anyone else ventured any jesting synonyms for his group of some five hundred people in the cluster of red brick buildings at Camelot, Virginia. Ordinarily, therefore, he would have been mildly incensed when Conrad Patrick, the Hope patent director, stuck his head in the door and told him that a three-ring circus was about to start down in Silicon Compounds, with Pierre Celsus in the center ring. But the circumstances were not ordinary. For the past two days, at the request of the United States government which, the Chairman of the Board had bluntly reminded him, was Hope's biggest single customer Bleeker had been turning the lab inside out for the benefit of Alexei Sasanov, Minister of Technology for the People's Republic, and for the past several hours had listened patiently to a comparison of decadent American chemical research and burgeoning socialistic research. The interruption offered a chance of respite, and his heart leaped. Nevertheless, appearances had to be maintained.
"What's Celsus up to?" he growled.
"He's going to try to start the silamine unit," said Patrick.
Bleeker's voice rose sharply. "Silicon Compounds has been trying to start that crazy thing for two months. I told them yesterday to junk the project. It's dead."
Patrick laughed. "Old projects never die. They just smell that way."
Bleeker snorted. "How does Celsus intend to do it?"
"He wants to try to synthesize one molecule of silamine in the reactor. He says the reaction should be autocatalytic, and once seeded, the fluidizer will start making more silamine. There'll be a little picric acid in the receiver, which ought to throw down a yellow silamine picrate within seconds, if it works."
"But that's idiotic! How can he seed the reactor with one molecule of silamine when not one single molecule of silamine exists anywhere on earth?"
Bleeker's distinguished visitor spoke up. "I quite agree with Mr. Bleeker." On the face of a less complicated man, the faint smile that played briefly about Sasanov's mouth might have been interpreted as a sneer. "It is a technical impossibility. Our central laboratories in Czezhlo have spent hundreds of thousands of rubles attempting to synthesize silamine. We want it as an intermediate for heat-resistant silicon polymers for missile coatings. We offered great incentives for success."
"And penalized failures?" murmured Bleeker.
Sasanov shrugged delicately. "The point is, where the most efficient, the most dedicated laboratory in the world has failed, it is hardly likely that a commercial American laboratory can succeed."
Patrick felt his red mustache bristling. He ignored the warning in Bleeker's eyes. "Would you care to make a small wager?"
Sasanov turned to Bleeker. "It is permitted?"
It was Bleeker's turn to shrug. "You have diplomatic immunity, Mr. Sasanov."
"So. A small wager then. If you make any silamine, the People's Republic will give Hope Chemicals a contract for a plant design, with handsome running royalty for every pound of silamine we make."
"At twenty-five cents a pound," said Bleeker quickly.
Sasanov thought a moment. "Exorbitant, of course. But agreed."
"This will have to be approved by Hope management," said Bleeker carefully. "We've heard complaints, you know, about the ... ah ... slow royalty payments to other American firms who have designed plants for your country in the past."
Sasanov spread his hands expressively. "Vicious lies. Surely you trust the People's Republic?"
Bleeker coughed.
"This contract isn't much of a stake," objected Patrick. "That's between your government and the Hope corporation, not between you and me."
"Readily remedied," smiled Sasanov. "What is the classic consideration in your English common law? A peppercorn, isn't it? Well then, I offer the contract and a jug of vodka, to be sent direct to you here at the lab, if I lose."
"Against the rules," said Bleeker. "Spiritous liquors can't be brought into the lab."
"Make it sweet cider," said Patrick.
"Certainly, sweet cider," said Sasanov. "The best in the world. Cider from your Winchester apples is a poor thing in comparison."
Bleeker set his jaw. "All right, your stake is a contract and a jug of cider. What's our stake?"
"Our stake, Mr. Bleeker? I think Mr. Patrick suggested the wager. The matter is, therefore, between him and me. And Mr. Patrick can readily provide his stake."
"Such as what," demanded Patrick.
"Your desk."
"My ... desk?" repeated Patrick stupidly.
"You don't have to do this, Con," said Bleeker quietly.
"Well, I don't know..." As Patrick considered the matter, his throat began to contract. His desk was a "rolltop," over a hundred years old, and one of the few remaining in the country that had never been used by Abraham Lincoln. It had caught his eye when browsing through the junk shops of Washington, and its entire panorama of possibilities opened up to him instantly. He bought it on the spot. He himself had carefully removed the ancient peeling finish by dint of solvent, scraper, and sandpaper, and had then slowly refinished it over a period of months. Finally he had moved it to his office at the lab. The pigeonholes were semi-filled with rolled documents, bound with genuine red tape that his London patent associates had found for him. He had patinated the papers with a light layer of dust recovered from his vacuum cleaner. His intercom and dictating machine were installed in the side drawers, and a tiny refrigerator in the lower left-hand cabinet. A kerosene reading lamp converted to fluorescent in the Hope maintenance shop sat on the upper deck of the desk, and a brass cuspidor gleamed in the lower right-hand cabinet. As a final touch, he had captured and imprisoned one small, bewildered spider, who, after a shrug of its arachnid shoulders, had gallantly garlanded a few of the more remote pigeonholes with sterile, dust-gathering strands.
For a time, Patrick's rolltop had been the talk of the lab; soon after its arrival dozens of people found it suddenly necessary to confer with Patrick on all kinds of patent problems. And now, even after the fine edge of novelty was gone, Hope people visiting from out of town still came in to see it. More importantly, as Patrick now realized with a chill, Comrade Sasanov, after his introduction to the patent director on the first day of his visit, had since dropped in to Patrick's office several times, for no apparent reason, and had stared thoughtfully at the desk.
There was no comparison between his desk and a jug of cider.
Still, a man had to have faith. And he had faith in Pierre Celsus.
"It's a bet," said Patrick.
)
