"Sylvia? Have Fred Stone come up, and you come in with him, eh? That's a dear."
He racked up the instrument and smiled at me as he stoked his pipe into more activity. "Relax," he advised me. "It always takes a while to round up Fred Stone."
He wanted no small talk, so I fidgeted in my chair while Cleary rocked gently in his. In about ten minutes, curly-headed Sylvia brought Dr. Stone in with her.
It was, "Hello, Fred," and "Hello there, Paul," when they came in. Sylvia didn't have anything to say, although she gave me a hot-eyed glance before pulling out the dictation board on Paul Cleary's desk and making herself comfortable with her notebook.
Cleary offered Doc Stone some of his tobacco, which was politely refused. The old man began it:
"Your Dr. Seaman has quite an idea, Fred," he said, in a mild, kindly voice, with a dumb, guileless look on his face.
"Good, Paul," Doc Stone smiled thinly. "I've told you he's a good boy."
"Hm-m-m," said Cleary. "He says his tests can't prove what went wrong with the switching gate on the satellites, and in effect that the telemetry doesn't make it plain whether we have design or assembly trouble."
"Well, well!" said Fred Stone. I decided to start shopping for a marker for my grave.