The phone rang.
"... a rocket...."
"IBM? Call me back in half an hour."
"... to the...."
Whiteford flipped the intercom switch.
"Tell the man from General Motors we'll be able to supply the gear specialists, Miss Hancock."
"... moon."
Whiteford glanced at his watch again and frowned.
"Really, Burger, I'm a very busy man. You'll have to cut it short."
Maxwell shouldered past Burger and leaned possessively on Whiteford's desk, his jaw an inch from Whiteford's own.