The G-Bomb. John Russell Fearn

At your age science doesn’t mean a thing to a girl, and romance comes in an easy first, but for your own sake I should try and do better than Ted Jackson. As to myself,” he went on, musing as Margaret filled the teapot, “I’m wondering how much money we can rake up.”

      “Money!” Margaret nearly dropped the kettle. “For what?”

      “The G-Bomb, of course. It won’t be any use me just submitting a sketch to an interested party. He’ll want to see what a model can do, so I must make one. It will cost me a few thousand pounds.”

      Margaret had finished laying the supper before she passed a comment, during which time her father had been putting the finishing touches to one of the many curious designs he had made.

      “We might as well try and rake up a few million, dad,” she said flatly. “It just can’t be done.”

      “But it must!” Her father glanced up, full of surprise that his wish couldn’t be instantly granted. “This has got to be completed.”

      “Yes dad, I daresay—and you’re an old darling—but I do feel bound to tell you that up till now your inventions have cost us several thousand pounds with a total net return of something like half your expenditure! That’s bad business in any language. We could well do that lost money. We wouldn’t be in this dump if we had it.”

      “So you’re itching for a fine home and fine clothes?” her father smiled.

      “I can’t help thinking that with your ability we ought to have them, yes. Possibly Ted Jackson’s let me down because we don’t amount to much.”

      “Then if that’s his angle he’s better left alone. Now, about the money I need. I must find it somewhere. Any ideas?”

      “None.” Margaret pulled up her chair to the table. “People willing to give you thousands for a scientific invention only exist in fairy tales. Certainly I have no friends who’d spring it.”

      “Then I must see a moneylender,” Jonas Glebe decided, coming over to settle at his supper. “Once I’ve shown a model to the right party I’ll not only collect my outlay and the interest, but thousands upon thousands on top of that! This, my dear, is really going to make us wealthy.”

      Margaret did not appear very convinced. She had heard that promise before concerning ‘gadgets’ that had never made beyond a few pounds.

      “Dad,” she said seriously, gripping his hand across the table, “why can’t you come down to earth for a moment? If you have a marvellous bomb there, all you have to do is submit the sketch to the War Office and have their experts look it over. They won’t steal it. If it’s worth anything you’ll get all the money you need for research.”

      “No.” Her father shook his head. “I’m not at all convinced that the War Office would be interested. This bomb of mine has other uses besides warfare. It can be invaluable in mining, demolition, and similar projects. It could even be timed for use as a fog-signal! In any case I’ve already made up my mind who I’ll contact.”

      “Well?”

      “Miles Rutter. He’s one of our biggest industrial men and controls all manner of corporations and organisations. If I can sell to him I’ll make all the money I need.”

      Margaret sighed. “Very well: but I do wish you’d not talk so glibly about going to a money-lender. Heaven knows where we’ll end if you do.”

      “We’ll come out on top,” her father smiled, obsessed—as he usually was at the climax of an inventive session—with complete optimism. “I’ll fix things in the morning.”

      Apparently he did, too, for when Margaret arrived home the following evening she found the small living room had been converted into something resembling a workshop. Apparatus lay in all directions and the table was littered with pieces of metal, springs, wires, and a collection of obviously new tools. Her father was busy at the bureau, using it now as a not too satisfactory bench. From the gleam in his tired eyes he appeared supremely happy.

      “Hello, dear!” He barely glanced up. “Fix the tea, will you? I haven’t had time.”

      Margaret went to work as instructed, asking a question meanwhile. “You got the money, then?”

      “Yes—from a moneylender. I traded in some insurance policies as security. None of which matters to me. This model must be completed—and it will take me about a month to do it. I should have an excellent chance of selling just at present with the international situation being so unsettled—”