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During the convention, there will be some kind of filler stuff from the central office." "Yeh!" snorted one of the men. "That's the dope, all right. One of us is stuck, but if it's me I'll walk out and head for the desert." Stimson looked at him with a sardonic smile. "I forgot to mention: the doors will be locked and barred, and of course there's no such thing as windows." Wasil whistled.
When Wasil reached the broadcasting plant, he was admitted by four armed guards. He locked the door behind him, to find his associates already busy, testing circuits and apparatus. Stimson, the chief engineer, was sitting at his desk studying orders. A few minutes later he called the men to him.
"They're sure careful. Well, Stimson. I haven't a thing to do all day. I'll take it on." They all looked at him, not sure that they had heard him right. "What's the matter, sonny?" Stimson said slowly. "Too much Merclite last night? You're shaking!" "It's an opening!" Wasil insisted. "An opening to tramp ice at the pole for the rest of your life!" "All right. I'll chance it!"
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