money, feetch decided after a while, was a good thing to have. his supply was running pretty low. he was not having any luck finding another job. although the cans had stopped falling on the fifteenth day, as predicted by the statisticians, industry would not soon forget the inconvenience and losses caused by the deluge. it was not anxious to hire the man it regarded as responsible for the whole thing. "feetch," the personnel man would read. "kalvin feetch." then, looking up, "not the kalvin feetch who—"

"yes," feetch would admit miserably.

"i am sorry, but—"

he did no better with research organizations. typical was a letter from the van terrel foundation: "—cannot accept your application inasmuch as we feel your premature application of your discovery to profit-making denotes a lack of scientific responsibility and ethics not desirable in a member of our organization—former employer states the decision was yours entirely. unfavorable reference—"

piltdon, feetch thought, feeling a strange sensation deep within his chest that he had not the experience to recognize as the beginning of a slow anger, piltdon was hitting low and getting away with it.

of course, if he were to agree to reveal his latest discoveries to a research organization, he would undoubtedly get an appointment. but how could he? everything patentable in his work would automatically revert to piltdon under the one year clause in the company patent agreement. no, feetch told himself, he was revealing nothing that piltdon might grab. the anger began to mount.

but he was beginning to need money desperately. jenny wasn't getting any better and medical bills were running high.

the phone rang. feetch seized it and said to the image: "absolutely not."

"i'll go up another ten dollars," grated the little piltdon image. "do you realize, man, this is the fourteenth raise i've offered you? a total increase of one hundred and twenty-six dollars? be sensible, feetch. i know you can't find work anywhere else."

"thanks to you. mr. piltdon, i wouldn't work for you if—"

a barrage of rocks crashed against the heavy steel screening of the window. "what's going on!" yelled piltdon. "oh, i see. people throwing rocks at your house again? oh, i know all about that, feetch. i know that you're probably the most unpopular man alive to-day. i know about the rocks, the tomatoes, the rotten eggs, the sneaking out at night, the disguises you've had to use. why don't you come back to us and change all that, feetch? we'll put out the new type super-opener and the world will soon forget about the old one."

"no," said feetch. "people will forget anyway—i hope."

"if you won't think of yourself, at least think of your fellow workmen," begged piltdon, his voice going blurry. "do you realize that piltdon opener will soon be forced to close down, throwing all your former associates out of work? think of hanson, sanchez, forbes. they have families too. think of the men in the shop, the girls in the office, the salesmen on the road. all, all unemployed because of you. think of that, feetch."

feetch blinked. this had not occurred to him.

piltdon eyed him sharply, then smiled with a hint of triumph. "think it over, feetch."

feetch sat, thinking it over. was it right to let all these people lose their jobs? frowning, he dialed hanson's number.

"chief," said hanson, "forget it. the boys are behind you one hundred per cent. we'll make out."

"but that's the trouble. i thought you'd feel like this, and i can't let you."

"you're beginning to weaken. don't. think, chief, think. the brain that figured the super-opener can solve this."

feetch hung up. a glow of anger that had been building up in his chest grew warmer. he began pacing the floor. how he hated to do it. think, hanson had said. but he had. he's considered every angle, and there was no solution.

feetch walked into the kitchen and carefully poured himself a drink of water. he drank the water slowly and placed the glass on the washstand with a tiny click. it was the tiny click that did it. something about it touched off the growing rage. if piltdon were there he would have punched him in the nose. the twenty-five years. the tricks. the threats.

think? he'd figured the solution long ago, only he hadn't allowed himself to see it. not lack of brains, lack of guts. well, he thought grimly, dialing piltdon's number, he was going through with it now. "piltdon!" he barked. "three p.m. tomorrow. my place. be here. that's all." he hung up.

in the same grim mood the following morning, he placed a few more calls.