And Thomas Lionel, Ph.D., M.M., pressed it again.
And again—
And again.
And then took a suspicious glance at the oxy-hydrogen torch on the table. A growing fear hit him. Tungsten wouldn't budge under an acetylene torch. Acids were not too effective, and plain, old-fashioned cutting tools were sheer foolishness. But heat the block white hot and hit it with an oxygen lance—
Thomas looked on the back side.
Uh-huh. The engineer had enjoyed himself. The back side of his little tungsten wave generator had been poked full of ragged holes; cut in ribbons with the oxygen lance, and generally made messy. The wave-guides and channels were all un-terminated and laid open. Pushing the button wouldn't do a thing.
It definitely would not call the engineer.
He had twenty-four hours to solve the production people's problems.
And Thomas Lionel understood. The engineer had his own little trap. No doubt the engineer would go fishing if called, and only the physicist was really interested in fighting this thing out to the bitter end. The engineer, losing already, had only a bank account to throw away by not working. And the engineer could get another one soon enough if permitted to do so.
Twenty-four hours.