"Sure," said Channing with a wave of his hand, "we'll hang a fuse in the line!"
"O.K.," said Walton, sweeping the tablecloth off the table like Mysto, the Magician; right out from under the glasses, "I'll be back—wearing my asbestos pants!"
Wes Farrell looked dreamily at the ceiling. "This is a screwy joint," he said idly. "What do we do for the next ten hours?"
"Red Herring stuff," said Channing with what he hoped was a Machiavellian leer.
"Such as?"
"Making wise moves with the transmission tubes. Glomming the barrister's desk with proposed ideas for his approval; as many as we can think of so that he'll be kept busy. We might even think of something that may work, meanwhile. Come, fellow conspirators, to horse!" Channing picked up his glass and drained it, making a wry face. "Rotten stuff—I wish I had a barrel of it!"
Channing surveyed the set-up in the blister. He inspected it carefully, as did the others. When he spoke, his voice came through the helmet receivers with a slightly tinny sound: "Anything wrong? Looks O.K. to me."
