people. You're a psychologist. A real one; not one of these night-school
boys. A juvenile psychologist, too. And what age-group spends the most
money in this country for soft-drinks?"

Knowing the names of the syrup's ingredients, and what their molecular
structure was like, was only the beginning. Gallon after gallon of the
School Board's chemicals went down the laboratory sink; Fred Benson and
Bill Myers almost lived in the fourth floor lab. Once or twice there
were head-shaking warnings from the principal about the dangers of
over-work. The watchmen, at all hours, would hear the occasional
twanging of Benson's guitar in the laboratory, and know that he had come
to a dead end on something and was trying to think. Football season came
and went; basketball season; the inevitable riot between McKinley and
Eisenhower rooters; the Spring concerts. The term-end exams were only a
month away when Benson and Myers finally did it, and stood solemnly,
each with a beaker in either hand and took alternate sips of the
original and the drink mixed from the syrup they had made.

"Not a bit of difference, Fred," Myers said. "We have it!"

Benson picked up the guitar and began plunking on it.

"Hey!" Myers exclaimed. "Have you been finding time to take lessons on
that thing? I never heard you play as well as that!"

* * * * *

They decided to go into business in St. Louis. It was centrally located,
and, being behind more concentric circles of radar and counter-rocket
defenses, it was in better shape than any other city in the country and