"Bond. Yes." His superior interrupted forcefully. "And tighten down on
all your men. You know how I feel about laxity."
He snapped the communicator off and gathered Bond's report together. For
a few seconds, he looked at the neat stack of paper, then he slipped a
paper clamp on it and punched his call button.
* * * * *
"There!" Paul Graham straightened from his hunched-over position at the
desk. He laid his soldering iron down and massaged the small of his
back, grimacing slightly.
"Oh, me! I'll swear my back'll never be the same again. But that ought
to do it, at last." He looked at the equipment before him and grinned
ruefully.
"Of all the haywire messes. It started out so nice. And it ended up so
awful."
The device _had_ started out as a fairly neat assembly, using a headband
as a chassis. But the circuitry seemed to have gone out of control.
Miniature sub-assemblies hung at all angles from their wires and tiny
components were interlaced through the unit, till the entire assembly
looked like a wig from a horror play. Graham shook his head, picked up
the band; and carefully fitted it, being careful that the contacts
touched his forehead and temples properly.
For an instant, he looked a little dazed. Then, he reached up and
fumbled for a moment with the controls at the front of the headband.
Suddenly, he stopped, an expression of pleasure on his face. He stood
for a time, looking at the wall, then looked up at the ceiling. He
frowned and looked at his wife, who was anxiously watching him. A smile
grew on his face, and she was clearly conscious of the projected
thought.
"_I told you, Elaine, it can't possibly hurt anyone. Stop worrying about
me._"