"Very," said Sypher, drily. "It would also come rather expensive, wouldn't
it?"

"How could expense be an object when there are human lives to be saved?"

"I think, my friend Dix," said Sypher, "you took the wrong turning in the
Milky Way before you were born. You were destined for a more enlightened
planet. If they won't pay thirteen pence halfpenny for Sypher's Cure, how
can you expect them to pay millions for your inventions? That Cure--but I'm
not going to talk about it. Mrs. Middlemist's orders. I'm here for a rest.
What are these? Proofs? Writing a novel?"

He held up the bundle with one of his kindly smiles and one of his swift
glances at Septimus.

"It's my book on guns."

"Can I look?"

"Certainly."

Sypher straightened out the bundle--it was in page-proof--and read the
title:

"A Theoretical Treatise on the Construction of Guns of Large Caliber. By
Septimus Dix, M.A." He looked through the pages. "This seems like sense,
but there are text-books, aren't there, giving all this information?"

"No," said Septimus modestly. "It begins where the text-books leave off.
The guns I describe have never been cast."