"I see," Klythe said coldly. "Very well." He turned his head a fraction and looked directly at Crayley. "Lew, what do you think the Space Force will do next time? Send over their own Director?"
The Space Force men looked embarrassed, and Crayley smiled one-sidedly. Nobody but Klythe could have gotten away with that crack. Berin Klythe had been trained by, and had worked under, no less a person than the great Fenwick Greene, acknowledged Grand Old Man of the profession. Crayley recalled that Fenwick Greene, too, had been offered and had survived the Big Gamble.
Klythe began asking questions about the new unit. His tone was sarcastic, and his manner biting. He spent better than an hour singling each man out for some remark about his ability or lack of it.
When he was finally through, he leaned forward on his desk, his knuckles white. "All right, let's get busy and build this thing! But we'll build it my way, understand?"
None of the technicians said a word.
Klythe turned and headed for the door, followed by Crayley and the other engineers. Silently, the technicians followed after.
The original model of the generator lay on a work table in one of the recording rooms. Around it were the recording stations, the seats and controls each of the techs would occupy.
Klythe waved at the seats. "All right, men—to begin with, each of you occupy your regular team position. Let's get this thing disassembled. I want to see how it goes."
The model was just that—a model. It had been built with ordinary metal and plastic; it could never be energized. The wiring was copper, the casing of steel. But it had been built as carefully and with as great precision as if it had actually been constructed of the fiercely radioactive materials that would go into the production models.