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Spawn of the Comet
written by "Rich, H. Thompson (Harold Thompson), 1893-1974" field, he retracted the wings of his swift little bus and motored to the foot of Observatory Hill. Parking outside the Wentworth home, he mounted the steps and rang the bell. It was answered by a slim, appealing girl of perhaps twenty-two. Hers was a wistful, oval face, with a small, upturned nose; and her clear hazel eyes were the sort that always seem to be enjoying some amusing secret of their own. Her hair was a soft brown, worn loose to the shoulders, after the style then in vogue. “Joan!” blurted Jim. “What brings you here at such an hour, Jimmy Carter?” she asked with mock severity. “You!” “I don’t believe you.” “What then have I come for?” “You’ve come to interview father about those meteorites.” “Nonsense! That’s purely incidental—a mere by-product, you might say.” “Yes, you might—but I wouldn’t advise you to say it to father.” “All right, I won’t,” he promised, as she led him into the library. Professor Wentworth rose as they entered and laid aside some scientific book he had been reading. A man of medium height and build, he had the same twinkling hazel eyes as his daughter, though somewhat dimmed from peering at too many stars for too many years. “Good evening, Jim,” he said. “I’ve rather been expecting you. What is on your mind?” “Seeds! Eggs! Baseballs!” was the reply, “I don’t know what. You’ve seen the latest television reports, I suppose?” said Jim, noting that the panel on the receiving cabinet across the room was still lit. “I’ve seen some of them. Joan has been keeping an eye on the screen mostly, however, while I refreshed my mind on the known chemistry of meteorites. You see, I have a few of those eggs myself, up at the observatory.” “You have?” cried Jim. He was certainly on the right track! “Yes. One of my assistants brought them in this afternoon. Would yo...

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