BZ is silent.

“Hey man, you gotta’ believe Walt Arfons was onto something,” I bellow over the purr and gurgle of the Pontiac. I knew — or at least, felt I knew — the failure of the Neptune had nothing to do with the fact that its steam-powered engine was just a hot-rodded, modified surplus fuel pump from a Titan Missile.

“It crashed because of aerodynamic issues and a nasty crosswind, nothing related to thrust.”

BZ is still silent.

“It was one of those great ideas that only made one run down the drag strip,” I say.

“If it only made one run, don’t you think that by definition it would be a bad idea?”


Again, I thought of Max Valier. Again I say nothing.


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