"Oh, nobody's killed," Wallingford said quickly. "I didn't mean that.
But Jack Wong turned his car over yesterday at a hundred and seventy
miles an hour, and he's laid up with a fractured leg and a badly
dislocated arm."
"Too bad," said Mike. "One of these days that fool will kill himself
racing." He knew Wong and liked him. They had served together in the
Space Service when Mike was on active duty.
"I hope not," Wallingford said. "Anyway--the matter I called you on last
night. Can you get those specs for me?"
"Sure, Wally. Hold on." He punched the hold button and rang for his
secretary as Wallingford's face vanished. When the girl's face came on,
he said: "Helen, get me the cargo specs on the _William
Branchell_--Section Twelve, pages 66 to 74."
The discussion, after Helen had brought the papers, lasted less than
five minutes. It was merely a matter of straightening out some cost
estimates--but since it had to do with the _Branchell_, and specifically
with Hold Number One, Mike decided he'd ask a question.
"Wally, tell me--what in the hell is going on down there at Chilblains
Base?"
"They're building a spaceship," said Wallingford in a flat voice.
It was Wallingford's way of saying he wasn't going to answer any
questions, but Mike the Angel ignored the hint. "I'd sort of gathered
that," he said dryly. "But what I want to know is: Why is it being built
around a cryotronic brain, the like of which I have never heard before?"
Basil Wallingford's eyes widened, and he just stared for a full two
seconds. "And just how did you come across that information, Golden
Wings?" he finally asked.
"It's right here in the specs," said Mike the Angel, tapping the sheaf
of papers.
"Ridiculous." Wallingford's voice seemed toneless.
Mike decided he was in too deep now to back out. "It certainly is,
Wally. It couldn't be hidden. To compute the thrust stresses, I had to
know the density of the contents of Cargo Hold One. And here it is:
1.726 gm/cm cubed. Nothing else that I know of has that exact density."
Wallingford pursed his lips. "Dear me," he said after a moment. "I keep
forgetting you're too bright for your own good." Then a slow smile
spread over his face. "Would you _really_ like to know?"
"I wouldn't have asked otherwise," Mike said.
"Fine. Because you're just the man we need."
Mike the Angel could almost feel the knife blade sliding between his
ribs, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that the person who had
stabbed him in the back was himself. "What's that supposed to mean,
Wally?"
"You are, I believe, an officer in the Space Service Reserve," said
Basil Wallingford in a smooth, too oily voice. "Since the Engineering
Officer of the _Branchell_, Jack Wong, is laid up in a hospital, I'm
going to call you to active duty to replace him."
Mike the Angel felt that ghostly knife twist--hard.
"That's silly," he said. "I haven't been a ship's officer for five
years."
"You're the man who designed the power plant," Wallingford said sweetly.
"If you don't know how to run her, nobody does."
"My time per hour is worth a great deal," Mike pointed out.
"The rate of pay for a Space Service officer," Basil Wallingford said
pleasantly, "is fixed by law."
"I can fight being called back to duty--and I'll win," said Mike. He
didn't know how long he could play this game, but it was fun.
"True," said Wallingford. "You can. I admit it. But you've been
wondering what the hell that ship is being built for. You'd give your
left arm to find out. I know you, Golden Wings, and I know how that mind
of yours works. And I tell you this: Unless you take this job, you'll
_never_ find out why the _Branchell_ was built." He leaned forward, and
his face loomed large in the screen. "And I mean absolutely _never_."
For several seconds Mike the Angel said nothing. His classically
handsome face was like that of some Grecian god contemplating the
Universe, or an archangel contemplating Eternity. Then he gave Basil
Wallingford the benefit of his full, radiant smile.
"I capitulate," he said.
Wallingford refused to look impressed. "Damn right you do," he said--and
cut the circuit.
7
Two days later Mike the Angel was sitting at his desk making certain
that M. R. GABRIEL, POWER DESIGN would function smoothly while he was
gone. Serge Paulvitch, his chief designer, could handle almost
everything.
Paulvitch had once said, "Mike, the hell of working for a first-class
genius is that a second-class genius doesn't have a chance."
"You could start your own firm," Mike had said levelly. "I'll back you,
Serge; you know that."
Serge Paulvitch had looked astonished. "Me? You think I'm crazy? Right
now, I'm a second-class genius working for a first-class outfit. You
think I want to be a second-class genius working for a second-class
outfit? Not on your life!"
Paulvitch could easily handle the firm for a few weeks.
Helen's face came on the phone. "There's a Captain Sir Henry Quill on
the phone, Mr. Gabriel. Do you wish to speak to him?"
"Black Bart?" said Mike. "I wonder what he wants."
"Bart?" She looked puzzled. "He said his name was Henry."
Mike grinned. "He always signs his name: _Captain Sir Henry Quill,
Bart._ And since he's the toughest old martinet this side of the
Pleiades, the 'Black' part just comes naturally. I served under him
seven years ago. Put him on."
In half a second the grim face of Captain Quill was on the screen.
He was as bald as an egg. What little hair he did have left was
meticulously shaved off every morning. He more than made up for his lack
of cranial growth, however, by his great, shaggy, bristly brows, black
as jet and firmly anchored to jutting supraorbital ridges. Any other man
would have been proud to wear them as mustaches.
"What can I do for you, Captain?" Mike asked, using the proper tone of
voice prescribed for the genial businessman.
"You can go out and buy yourself a new uniform," Quill growled. "Your
old one isn't regulation any more."
Well, not exactly growled. If he'd had the voice for it, it would have
been a growl, but the closest he could come to a growl was an Irish
tenor rumble with undertones of gravel. He stood five-eight, and his red
and gold Space Service uniform gleamed with spit-and-polish luster. With
his cap off, his bald head looked as though it, too, had been polished.
Mike looked at him thoughtfully. "I see. So you're commanding the
mystery tub, eh?" he said at last.
"That's right," said the captain. "And don't go asking me a bunch of
blasted questions. I've got no more idea of what the bloody thing's
about than you--maybe not as much. I understand you designed her power
plant...?"
He let it hang. If not exactly a leading question, it was certainly a
hinting statement.