"I called about getting a new timer for the projectile fuel-injection system," snapped Barret. "The timer is too slow for our needs. I wanted to adjust it myself, but the projectile is so compact, I can't get at it without taking a chance of getting doused by the fuel."
"What about that remark about finding an opening?" growled Connel.
"What's going on here?" called Professor Hemmingwell as he bustled up to the group. "Why aren't these men working? Dave, why aren't you up there—?"
"Just a minute, Professor!" Connel barked, and turned back to Barret. "Go ahead, Barret."
"They can't make a new timer until I find a way of installing it without taking apart the whole projectile," said Barret, adding sarcastically, "in other words, Major—finding an opening."
"All right," barked Connel. "That's enough." He turned to the assembled workers. "Get back to work, all of you." The men moved away and Firehouse Tim led the guards back to their quarters. Professor Hemmingwell, Barret, and Astro remained where they were.
Connel turned to Astro. "Good work, you dumb Venusian," he snorted. "But so help me, if you had burned this man, I, personally, would've buried you on a prison rock." The major then turned to Barret. "As for you—" he snarled.
"Yes?" asked Barret coolly.
"You make one more call like that over a public teleceiver," Connel roared, "especially a transspace call that's monitored by the idiots in the teleceiver company, and I'll send you to a prison asteroid!"
"Now, Major," said Hemmingwell testily, "I don't think you should speak to Dave that way. After all, he's a very valuable man in this project."