He pointed toward the window. “There.” Was he right? Had Hopper ordered a machine that ate dirt?
The big man’s eyes widened in surprise. He gave Gallegher a swift, wondering look, and then moved toward the device, inspecting it from all angles. He glanced out the window, but didn’t seem much interested in what he saw there. Instead, he turned back to Gallegher with a puzzled scowl.
“You mean this? A totally new principle, is it? But then it must be.”
No clue there. Gallegher tried a feeble smile. Hopper just looked at him.
“All right,” he said. “What’s the practical application?”
Gallegher groped wildly. “I’d better show you,” he said at last, crossing the lab and flipping the switch. Instantly the machine started to sing “St. James Infirmary.” The tentacles lengthened and began to eat dirt. The hole in the cylinder opened. The grooved wheel began to revolve.
Hopper waited.
After a tune he said, “Well?”
“You—don’t like it?”
“How should I know? I don’t even know what it does. Isn’t there any screen?”