Morgan broke in, amused. "Gwenlyn insists that I have the talent of finding and using talents."
"A mild talent, Father," said Gwenlyn. "Not enough to make you revolting. But—"
A door opened. A tweedy man with a small mustache stood in the doorway.
"I believe I'm wanted?" he said offhandedly.
Morgan introduced him. His name was Logan. He was the lightning calculator, the mathematical talent of Talents, Incorporated. Bors shook his hand. The tweedy man sat down. He drew out a pipe and began to fill it with conscious exactitude. He looked remarkably like a professor of mathematics who modestly pretended to be just another commuter. He dressed the part: slightly untidy hair; bulldog pipe; casual, expensive sports shoes.
"I understand," he said negligently, "that you want some calculations made."
"I'm told I do," said Bors, harassedly. "But I don't know what they are."
"Then how can I make them?" asked Logan with lifted eyebrows.
"Naturally," said Morgan, "you'll find out the kind of calculations he needs, that he can't get anywhere else. That'll be the kind he needs from you."
"Hm," said Logan. He blew a smoke-ring, thoughtfully. "Where do you use calculations in space-travel?"