Feetch blinked. This had not occurred to him.
Piltdon eyed him sharply, then smiled with a hint of triumph. "Think it over, Feetch."
Feetch sat, thinking it over. Was it right to let all these people lose their jobs? Frowning, he dialed Hanson's number.
"Chief," said Hanson, "Forget it. The boys are behind you one hundred per cent. We'll make out."
"But that's the trouble. I thought you'd feel like this, and I can't let you."
"You're beginning to weaken. Don't. Think, chief, think. The brain that figured the Super-Opener can solve this."
Feetch hung up. A glow of anger that had been building up in his chest grew warmer. He began pacing the floor. How he hated to do it. Think, Hanson had said. But he had. He's considered every angle, and there was no solution.
Feetch walked into the kitchen and carefully poured himself a drink of water. He drank the water slowly and placed the glass on the washstand with a tiny click. It was the tiny click that did it. Something about it touched off the growing rage. If Piltdon were there he would have punched him in the nose. The twenty-five years. The tricks. The threats.
Think? He'd figured the solution long ago, only he hadn't allowed himself to see it. Not lack of brains, lack of guts. Well, he thought grimly, dialing Piltdon's number, he was going through with it now. "Piltdon!" he barked. "Three p.m. tomorrow. My place. Be here. That's all." He hung up.
In the same grim mood the following morning, he placed a few more calls.