But Hans Girard-Perregaux was wagging him to silence with a finger. "They'll be made. I've taken steps to see friend Seymour Pond comes dragging back to us."
"But he hates space! The funker probably won't consent to come within a mile of the New Albuquerque Spaceport for the rest of his life, the blistering cloddy."
A desk light flicked green, and Girard-Perregaux raised his eyebrows. "Exactly at the psychological moment. If I'm not mistaken, Lofting, that is probably our fallen woman."
"Our what?"
But Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux had come to his feet and personally opened the door. "Ah, my dear," he said affably.
Natalie Paskov, done today in Bulgarian peasant garb, and as faultless in appearance as she had been in the Kudos Room, walked briskly into the office.
"Assignment carried out," she said crisply.
"Indeed," Girard-Perregaux said approvingly. "So soon?"
Gubelin looked from one to the other. "What in the blistering name of Zoroaster is going on?"