“Si. As you say, amigo. Queer.”
Once Jacobs’ interest was aroused he was also not one to let a matter drop; he told Gomez to work on another tube while he consulted the front office. The front office was not especially interested, but at Jacobs’ insistence they called in a metallurgist. The metallurgist, whose name was Britton, was fortunately a thorough young man. He ordered the plate removed and sent to his laboratory for complete analysis.
After that things happened fast. Britton scanned the analysis of the plate and without hesitation called in his superior who ordered a second test just to be safe, and then notified Washington. Washington turned it over to Interplanetary Intelligence, of which Carson was chief of staff.
One week later Ben Sessions stood before Carson’s desk.
Sessions was only thirty-five, but in his few years with “Two Eyes,” as the organization was known, he had rung up an enviable record. Tall, lithe, darkly handsome, he was well liked by the men who worked with him. At the moment there was a puzzled frown on his face, lengthening the line made by a scar which ran from his forehead down the side of his nose. The scar was the result of a crash landing on Neptune.
“I don’t get it, sir,” he said. “A single plate from a rocket tube . . . So what if it didn’t oxidize?”
“That makes me feel much better.” Carson smiled, an inner bitterness making the smile wry. “I didn’t get it either,” he went on. “A mechanic named Gomez got it; a foreman named Jacobs got it; a lab man named Britton got it; but the chief of “Two Eyes” missed the boat. I feel swell about that.” He rose suddenly and hammered his fist on the desk. “Every one of us in Intelligence ought to be cashiered!”
“Take it easy,” Ben cautioned. “All because of that plate?”
Carson slumped back into his chair. “Yes. And because we have failed in our duty. Our only hope is that we may have time to make it up. I’ll give you the facts: