Sandringham stared at him. Then he said:
"But how does that apply here? It was sound enough, though I'd never have thought of it. But what's it got to do with the situation here?"
"This swamp, you might say," said Bordman, "is underground. But there's forty feet, on an average, of soil on top."
He explained what difference that made. It took him three sentences to make the difference clear.
Sandringham leaned back in his chair. Bordman scratched the dog, somewhat embarrassed. Sandringham thought.
"I do not see any possible chance," said Sandringham distastefully, "of doing it any other way. I would never have thought of that! But I'm taking part of the job out of your hands, Bordman."
Bordman said nothing. He waited.
"Because," said Sandringham, "you're not the man to put over to the civilians what they must believe. You're not impressive. I know you, and I know you're a good man in a pinch. But this pinch needs a salesman. So I'm going to have Werner make the—er—pitch to the planetary government. Results are more important than justice, so Werner will front this affair."
Bordman winced a little. But Sandringham was right. He didn't know how to be impressive. He could not speak with pompous conviction, which is so much more convincing than reason to most people. He wasn't the man to get the cooperation of the non-Service population, because he could only explain what he knew and believed, and was not practiced in persuasion. But Werner was. He had the knack of making people believe anything, not because it was reasonable but because it was oratory.
"I suppose you're right," acknowledged Bordman. "We need civilian help and a lot of it. I'm not the man to get it. He is." He did not say anything about Werner being the man to get credit, whether he deserved it or not. He patted the dog's head and stood up. "I wish I had a good supply of soil-coagulant. I need to make a coffer-dam in the reserve area here. But I think I'll manage."