Crayley looked mildly at Major Stratford. "I'm Acting Director here, Major. I'm afraid I can't let you take our property."
The major turned to the smaller man standing nearby. "Colonel, perhaps you'd better—"
"I'll take care of it," the smaller man said choppily. "We're not confiscating it, exactly, Mr. Crayley. The tape will remain where it is. Immediately after the accident, I phoned the Executive Secretary at the capital. He is sending down an investigating board by special jet."
"May I ask why this rather high-handed action, Colonel Green?"
The colonel patted the air with a nervous hand. "Calm yourself, Mr. Crayley. I am Fenwick Greene; the 'colonel' is merely a military title I have to put up with."
"Fenwick Greene!" It was one of the few times in his life that Crayley's screen, his wall, his defense, collapsed. "My—my apologies, sir! I didn't realize—I mean, I had no idea it was you—in the Space Force!"
He had never seen Fenwick Greene's picture, of course. No newspaper would dare commit such a flagrant violation of privacy.
Greene accepted Crayley's hand for a few seconds, then withdrew his own hand. "I was—ah—drafted," he explained.
Major Stratford smiled. "When the Space Force needs men, they pick the best."
Crayley nodded dumbly. Fenwick Greene was undoubtedly the greatest co-ordination engineer who had ever lived. The late Berin Klythe couldn't hold a candle to him. His waldo recordings were like symphonies of precision and speed. Someone had once said that, given enough recording technicians and enough time to train them his way, Fenwick Greene could build a spaceship faster than parts could be made for it. It was an exaggeration, of course, but it showed what the trade thought of Fenwick Greene.