"And after? Disposition?"
"Displacement effect. Or—" the senior gun runner sketched a quick gesture of pulling a trigger.
The younger man nodded slowly, still dubious—which was proper, it was his function to be suspicious and questioning, as it was the other's to command. "Stimulus?"
"Profit. Curiosity. And ... Moirta."
Both men turned and looked appraisingly at the woman, who had not yet entered the discussion. She was a very narrow specialist, within the wider specialty of gun running and murder. Now she moved her shoulders uneasily. "Displacement effect," she suggested, "near limit. If caught—" she made an unpleasantly suggestive spastic gesture.
The chief gun runner shrugged again. "If caught," he repeated the gesture she had made, "in any case. No choice. Find technician now."
George Dolan studied his visitors thoughtfully.
"Well, actually," he said, "our work is design, not repair. I suppose I could send a man out to look over your job and recommend a firm to handle it. Is that what you want?"
"Mr. Dolan," the gray-haired man said earnestly, "I am afraid you still misunderstand me. The work we wish done is small in scale, but very intricate and delicate, and highly confidential. We have investigated your qualifications, and you are the man we want to handle it, you personally. We do not want you to mention this work to any other person—not even your wife."