"Eight is O.K. except for some burned cable and some messiness. We never were in really bad shape."
"We're still cleaning relay contacts with files. Take another hour at least, and we've got so much help that the boys on the upper panels are standing on the shoulders of the men working on the lower panels. Also, they're so close together that they need a hortator to beat time so their elbows won't clash. That's how we stand on 9."
"Ten's in shape for test."
"Eleven needs a new alphatron, which is being hooked into place right now."
"Twelve is ready to go on test, according to Ben, who called just before you came."
McBride smiled wearily. "That's the fore element," he said. "They tell me that the rear element is all ready and waiting. So all we need now is Carlson. Give orders to have the propulsion operators start aligning their stations. And get me Doc Caldwell."
The phone rang and McBride picked it up. "This is Doc," said the man on the other end. "Look, Mac, can you come over to my office?"
"Sure," answered McBride. To the men in the room, he said: "Fight it out among you. Give help to any station that still needs it. We're going back in service as soon as we can—in an hour, I'd estimate. That's if Carlson is capable of handling his end."
McBride went to Doc's office. Caldwell smiled bleakly. "He's conscious. He insists on talking to you."
"Is he O.K.?"