Patricia Morris drove through the countryside idly, but too fast for the time of year. It was late winter, and the road was slippery. Snow still lay damply on the ground and there were ice floes on the lakes.
But Patricia was not driving for fun. She was driving in anger and sheer boredom. She was sick and tired of the surroundings of her home. Another person might have liked them -- and Patricia had liked them once but, like her life, they now seemed entirely too artificial. The daughter of the Governor of the State is in a position to wonder about the honesty of those who importune her. Since she was mentally competent and physically attractive, she was quick to question the true, often hidden, desires of the men who sought after her.
And so now Patricia, filled with boredom, was driving too fast on a slippery road. And naturally, the inevitable happened. Patricia's car skidded on a slippery spot on the road and spun completely around twice. The car careened into the ditch, against a light fence-post, and was still.
A man, clad in a heavy overcoat, muffler, and overshoes, emerged from the woods, approached the car and opened the door. Patricia, unconscious, fell from the car seat into the man's waiting arms.
He shook her gently, rubbed her cheek with his hand, and murmured soothing words to her.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him.
"What happened?"
"You had an accident," he told her. "You should not drive so fast on slippery roads. You might get hurt."
"Am I hurt?"
"Forget it," he said, propping her back into her seat in the car. "It's been fun!"
So saying, the man leaned forward and kissed Patricia full on the lips. Then he turned and left, heading across the road into the woods, where he disappeared.
He left nothing -- but the tingle of his caress.
She swore softly in a cool contralto.
Getting out of the car, she looked it over. The right front wheel was dished; the left fender was turned under against the wheel.
Furthermore, no one without a tow truck could ever set that car on the road again for driving, even after it was repaired.
Patricia kicked the wheel with a small overshoe and swore again.
Then she laughed, and in the cool air, her voice tinkled happily.
Boredom? This time she had escaped it.
From the glove compartment in the car, Patricia took a road map and spread it out over the hood. It was thirty miles to the nearest town along either way of the road. Through the woods, however, it was not far. A few miles.
It was about noon, and the air was exhilarating and Patricia was well clothed. Somehow the idea of trudging along the hard concrete of the road seemed less fun than cutting through the woods. Getting lost didn't bother her. She wouldn't get lost. Using her nail file with sheer womanlike ability to work mechanical miracles, Patricia disconnected the little automobile compass fastened to the windshield and looked at it carefully.
"Die true, North-Northeast," she said aloud. She blew out her breath and shrugged at the little white cloud. She'd be cold by then, but not frozen.
What fun!
Deep in the woods, the snow tapered off to nothing. The ground was not damp as with freshly-melted snow, but dry. A duck pond a little farther on was clear and not a spot of ice marred its surface. Ducks floated on its surface happily, fishing.
The trees about her here were budding ever so slightly and the grassy forest floor was truly showing the verdant green that marks the coming of spring.
But it was still Mid-March and the awakening of spring not due for a full six weeks in this climate.
Patricia continued on. Tiny leaves were visible here, and still further along there was the full-leaved tree, blossoming flower, and heavy grass of full summer.
And then before her she saw a tall tower of girder and glass, surmounted by a three foot sphere of mirror-shining metal. A comfortable brick building stood near the tower and there were a few other smaller buildings handy. She stood there, wondering about all this, and definitely connecting the summery appearance of the place with the tower, for waves of warmth came from the shining metal sphere on top. She knew because she could feel the warmth of her face as she looked up at it.
"Summery, isn't it? " came a wry voice.
Patricia gasped. A tall man stood behind her with a crooked smile on his face. A Doberman stood beside him, regarding Patricia with mingled suspicion and patience.
"I -- was -- "
"Blind," replied the man without humor. "These signs are printed in a fair grade of legible type in a good semantic form. They make no exceptions for personable young ladies, regardless of their desirability."
"Don't be insulting," snapped Patricia.
"I'd be a four-star liar if I told you that you weren't personable and desirable," he told her acidly. "You may be blind, but I am not."
"I'll leave your land at once," she answered in tart tones. "I saw no signs."
"I know. " He grinned. "Your car skidded into the one you should have seen."
Patricia bent a cold gaze upon him. "You've been following me?"
"Yes. And if you hadn't stumbled on this, you'd have gone on through without seeing anybody."
"What is the secret? " she demanded.
"It's obvious, isn't it? " he told her.
"Seems to me that any secret project should have guards and a fence."
"I can't afford either."
"But -- " faltered Patricia, waving a hand vaguely at the tower and the forest. "But -- "
"You've stumbled onto something that I'd have much preferred to keep secret, Miss Morris."
"You know me? " she gasped.
"No. Just connected the license-plate listing with the girl driving it."
"And," she said loftily, "is your name as secret as this -- project?"
He grinned at her again. "Don't be snippy. For one thing, you didn't think my name important enough to ask, and for another thing, you're the trespasser, not I."
"Well?"
"In an earlier era," he said with a smile, "a man could hurl a trespasser into a donjon keep. Or set the dog on the trespasser. I'm James Tennis, Miss Morris. And I'd not turn Doby here on you because I'd hate to see you trying to outrun a doberman on those high-heeled overshoes. Instead, I'll invite you in for a spot of hot tea, after which I'll drive you to someplace where you can arrange for transportation home."
"For which I'll thank you, Mr. Tennis. And this -- "
"This is my own project," he said. "And it is not perfected and tested yet. I'll explain, but you must swear secrecy."
"That, I promise," she said with a lift of her head.
He walked beside her toward the larger of the brick buildings. She noted with interest that he stood a full seven inches taller than she, and that he seemed more than sure of himself.
The house itself was neat but lacking in the frills and gadgets of a real home. It was starkly utilitarian and obviously womanless. Heavy drapes of the kind that require little attention hung over the windows and in other ways the place had the appearance of a house where only the scantiest attention had been paid to those details which a woman considers important.
Tennis led Patricia into the kitchen and set a kettle of water to boiling on an electric stove of modern design.
Then he turned from the stove and conducted her back into the living room. Here, he showed her a small metal case about eight-by-eight-by-ten inches. Atop the case was a tall glass insulator surmounted by a shining sphere. A standard line cord ran from the case. Tennis plugged it into the wall socket and snapped the single switch on the case.
"This is an effect I uncovered during some experiments," he explained. "I know no more about it than I did two months ago when I first discovered it. But -- "
He took her wrist and held her hand near the sphere.
Warmth flowed from the sphere and Patricia nodded.
"A smaller example of the larger one out there?"
"This is the first one. That one is the second. It was set in operation along about the middle of January. It seems to be doing fine."
Patricia looked out at the green woods. "That it does," she said.
"This thing," he told her, "develops about the same thermal output as a fifteen-hundred-watt electric heater with an input of about twenty-five watts."
"It sounds as though you should be able to make a large fortune," observed Patricia.
"It does," he agreed. "But I'm inclined to wait until I'm certain of what the devil is going on. It might be dangerous."
"Why?"
"Energy must come from somewhere," he said. "The problem is where. Until I'm sure that nothing dangerous will take place, I'm not inclined to release it."
"You seem to have something that might well change the earth," she said.
"I'd like to be certain that the change will be all to the good," he answered with a laugh. Then he trotted to the kitchen to take care of the tea kettle, which was beginning to make high-pitched noises.
She followed him and he served her as she sat on the tall stool in his kitchen.
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