He ripped a full chord out of his guitar and began to sing.
In the morning, Glover stopped at Britten's breakfast table, annoyed with word of the ion-source burnout.
"Now how are we going to get it fixed?" he demanded, in exasperation. "Gamp cut his hand yesterday, Williams had his appendix out a week ago, Langsdorf is busy with the kicksorter, and—"
"Why don't we do it ourselves?" Britten interrupted, eagerly. "It'll do us good to get into spacesuits again."
It would do Jim Britten some good, he thought to himself. If genius was measured by the ability to spot an opportunity, then his success was assured. The plan of action was in his mind, completely formed in that instant.
On the outer skin of the satellite, the two of them alone, any one of a number of accidents could occur. Holding them down against the pull of centrifugal force would be only the magnetic shoes and a thin line. From that beginning, his mind went precisely to its conclusion.
"Alma," Morris Wolf said, "I'm beginning to feel very uneasy. What do we have here?"
He poured coffee into the cups on his desk.
Alma Heller looked at him shrewdly, and stirred sugar into her cup.