Chapter Twenty-Three1967
Albert Desrosiers slammed his desk drawer shut and stood up suddenly, scowling. I’ve been a fool, he thought. A ridiculous, damned fool.
He had been working on one project for the last two years, and it was nearly finished. If he managed to pull it off, it would make him a very rich man, no question about that. There had been problems, of course—delays, many times pursuing a path that turned out to be fruitless, brick walls that took him a week or even months to find a way around—but Albert had every confidence he would succeed. Even though his invention did not yet exist, he could physically feel it somehow, the shape of it was so clear in his mind. Its essence was alive to him, and all he had to do was make it concrete with wires and solder, and investors would
