"Millions. Every day, some physicist comes up with a new idea on
sub-nucleonics. Within a week or so, enough of these ideas have
snowballed to produce a slight modification that will improve a
spacedrive--increase its speed, improve its efficiency, and so on.
Within six or eight months, enough improvements have built up to make
it worthwhile to incorporate them into the drive we're building. If
North American used production line robots, we'd have to rip out the
whole bunch and rebuild 'em to make the new generator. Why? Because the
ordinary robotic device is a specialist; it can, at most, do two or
three things--usually only one. And if you eliminate the thing that a
particular robot does, or change it a little, you have to rebuild the
tools and re-arrange them before reprogramming the whole line.
"The waldo, a working replica of the human arm and hand, isn't
specialized like that; it's adaptable; it can do anything. If we have
to modify the design, all we have to do is reprogram the tapes, which
is a comparatively easy job.
"And besides, if anything goes wrong down there, we can put the hands
on manual and go trouble-shooting, something we couldn't do with
production line stuff."
"I see," the major said, nodding. "Ingenious." He glanced at his wrist.
"Do you suppose Mr. Klythe is through yet?"
The smile that touched Crayley's mind did not reach his face. "I think
he's just about through." His voice was completely innocent of any
subtle innuendoes.
* * * * *
He glanced again at the screen that pictured the hundreds of hands
moving automatically through their intricate motions in the production
tunnel deep underground, then touched a switch. As the screen faded
to blankness, he turned and led the way down the corridor to Klythe's
office.
Crayley paced his steps neatly so that he would stay just a foot in
the lead. A foot, no more. Too much would be obvious. A foot was quite
enough to show who was leading.
His lean face was, as always, set in a placid mask. A thousand years
before, Lewis Crayley might have worn a helmet of steel to hide his
thoughts. Two hundred years before, he might have worn eyeglasses.
Now, since there was no excuse to wear either, Crayley could only hide
behind his own face.
It was a face well constructed for the purpose. The nose was large and
prominent--plenty of room to hide behind a nose like that. The brows
were craggy and shaggy, overshadowing the half-closed eyes beneath
them. The heavy mustache, which he wore in spite of the fact that it
was looked upon as an anachronism, effectively concealed any expression
the thin, firm mouth might show.
His hands, too, were useful. Their quick, nervous movements distracted
attention from the face when they were away from it, and effectively
concealed it when they were nervously rubbing his nose or stroking his
mustache.
Using only God-given materials, Lewis Crayley had built a magnificently
efficient wall between himself and the world. He could see out, but no
one could see in.
Not that Crayley thought of it that way. Crayley was just calm, that
was all. He had control over his emotions; he didn't let them run away
with him. Poise and impartial objectivity were his. He allowed nothing
to bother him, and no one to thwart him.
Berin Klythe was attempting to do just that. There was, Crayley
admitted, nothing malicious about it. Klythe was not trying to suppress
Crayley; there was just nothing else he could do. There is nothing
malicious about an asteroid, either, but when one lies directly athwart
the orbit of a spaceship, either the ship must veer aside or the
asteroid blasted out of the way. And Crayley was not the type to change
his orbit.
There was no malice or hatred on Crayley's part, either. One does not
hate an asteroid.
He pushed open the door to Klythe's outer office and allowed the Space
Force major to follow him in. The girl behind the desk was sliding her
fingers expertly over the sparkling panel of a photowriter, and her
pace didn't change as she looked up.
"Yes, Mr. Crayley?"
"Is Mr. Klythe through yet?"
Her hand touched another panel. "Mr. Crayley is here with the gentleman
from the Space Force." She listened for a moment to a sonobeam the men
couldn't hear, then she nodded. "Go right in."
Berin Klythe was coming out from behind his desk when they stepped
into the inner office. His smile was broad and his hand outstretched.
Crayley snapped his voice into action.
"Berin, this is Major Stratford. Major--Mr. Klythe, our Director."
Klythe was pumping the major's hand. "Sorry to have kept you waiting,
Major. Just one of those things that has to be cleared up to keep
things moving."
"Perfectly all right. I was a little bit early, and Mr. Crayley was
good enough to show me around."
Crayley rubbed his mustache and waited for the greetings to get
themselves over with. The major was trying to act nonchalant, but it
was easy to see that he was somewhat in awe of Klythe. Klythe had taken
the Big Gamble and won, and not very many people had done that. In the
first place, the government only picked a few of the very best men to
go through Rejuvenation. Men who were necessary, brilliant, useful. Men
like Berin Klythe, who was important and a genius.
That was a point that Crayley admitted. Klythe was a genius. And, very
likely, a more capable one than Crayley. But Crayley, too, was a genius
in his own way, and he didn't feel that mere brilliancy should allow
Klythe to block his path.
Three years ago, Berin Klythe had been a graying, stocky, aging man of
sixty. Now he was lithe, dark of hair, clear of eye, and full of the
energy of a twenty-five year old body.
He'd be good for another century. And Lewis Crayley wouldn't.
* * * * *
"Sit down, Major," Berin was saying. "Commander Edder told me you'd be
around, but he only hinted at the trouble."
"Is this room sealed, Mr. Klythe?" the major asked calmly.