Unwise Child | Page 6

something else. You can't win in this game."
Cowder nodded glumly. "It's a losing proposition any way you look at
it.... Well, good night again." He stepped out, and Old Harry closed and
locked the door behind him.
Mike the Angel said: "Come on, Harry; I want to find something." He
began walking back down the long, narrow shop toward the rear again.

Harry followed, looking mystified.
Mike the Angel stopped, sniffing. "Smell that?"
Harry sniffed. "Aye. Burnt insulation. So?"
"You know which one of these bins is nearest to your main control
cable. Start looking. See if you find anything queer."
Old Harry walked over to a nearby bin, pulled it open, and looked
inside. He closed it, pulled open another. He found the gadget on the
third try. It was a plastic case, six by six by eight, and it still smelled of
hot insulation, although the case itself was barely warm.
"What is it?" Harry asked in wonder.
"It's the gizmo that turned your equipment off. When I passed by it, my
own gadget must have blown it. I knew the police couldn't have made it
here between the time of the fight and the time they showed up. They
must have had at least an extra minute. Besides, I didn't think anyone
could build an instrument that would blank out everything at long range.
It had to be something near your main cable. I think you'll find a
metallic oscillator in there. Analyze it. Might be useful."
Harry turned the box over in his hands. "Probably has a timer in it to
start it.... Well.... That helps."
"What do you mean?"
"I've got a pretty good idea who put it here. Older kid.
Nineteen--maybe twenty. Seemed like a nice lad, too. Didn't take him
for a JD. Can't trust anyone these days. Thanks, Mike. If I find anything
new in here, I'll let you know."
"Do that," said Mike the Angel. "And, as a personal favor, I'll show you
how to build my own super-duper, extra-special, anti-vibroblade
defense unit."
Old Harry grinned, crinkling up his wizened face in a mass of fine

wrinkles. "You'd better think up a shorter name than that for it, laddie; I
could probably build one in less time than it takes you to say it."
"Want to bet?"
"I'll bet you twenty I can do it in twenty-four hours."
"Twenty it is, Harry. I'll sell you mine this time tomorrow for twenty
bucks."
Harry shook his head. "I'll trade you mine for yours, plus twenty." Then
his eyes twinkled. "And speaking of money, didn't you come down here
to buy something?"
Mike the Angel laughed. "You're not going to like it. I came down to
get a dozen plastic-core resistors."
"What size?"
Mike told him, and Old Harry went over to the proper bin, pulled them
out, all properly boxed, and handed them to him.
"That'll be four dollars," he said.
Mike the Angel paid up with a smile. "You don't happen to have a
hundred-thousand-unit microcryotron stack, do you?"
"Ain't s'posed to," said Harry MacDougal. "If I did, I wouldn't sell it to
you. But, as a matter of cold fact, I do happen to have one. Use it for a
paperweight. I'll give it to you for nothing, because it don't work,
anyhow."
"Maybe I can fix it," said Mike the Angel, "as long as you're giving it
to me. How come it doesn't work?"
"Just a second, laddie," said Harry. He scuttled to the rear of the shop
and came back with a ready-wrapped package measuring five by five
by four. He handed it to Mike the Angel and said: "It's a present.
Thanks for helping me out of a tight spot."

Mike said something deprecative of his own efforts and took the
package. If it were in working order it would have been worth close to
three hundred dollars--more than that on the black market. If it was
broken, though, it was no good to Mike. A microcryotron unit is almost
impossible to fix if it breaks down. But Mike took it because he didn't
want to hurt Old Harry's feelings by refusing a present.
"Thanks, Harry," he said. "Happen to know why it doesn't work?"
Harry's face crinkled again in his all-over smile. "Sure, Mike. It ain't
plugged in."

4
Mike the Angel did not believe in commuting. Being a bachelor, he
could afford to indulge in that belief. In his suite of offices on 112th
Street, there was one door marked "M. R. Gabriel." Behind that door
was his private secretary's office, which acted as an effective barrier
between himself and the various employees of the firm. Behind the
secretary's office was his own office.
There was still another door in his inner office, a plain, unmarked