"Nope. The field coils are melted right down into a copper ring and the insulation, which was vaporized, is now deposited all over the walls of the station in about two hundred atomic thicknesses. The latter is the worst, I think. That means that every single relay contact in the place has got to be gone over with trichloroethylene and a five-hundred-point file."
"O.K., Bob. Send Tiny Hanson over with Carlson and we'll send him back with the alphatron. Need anything else?"
"Might send something that'll either precipitate or absorb the smell of insulation. The whole joint stinks."
"Cheer up," said McBride. "Think of how it would stink if we were using rubber like the old boys did. That, Bob, would really make your eyes water! No, I haven't anything here that you haven't there. It'll go away as the atmosphere clarifier takes up the impurities. Better keep a close watch on the filter screens, though, or you'll get the system fouled and the atmosphere will not be cleared."
"O.K. We're about to start right now. Tiny will be over in just as long as it takes to go around the lens."
"Wait a minute! Cut across, Bob. After all, the lens is down, and we needn't worry about crossing direct."
The phone rang again. McBride picked it up and bellowed: "Hello!"
"Dr. McBride? This is Charles Holloway."
McBride swallowed. Holloway was the planet governor at Pluto. "Yes?" he said in a quieter tone.