Greene tapped his teeth with his thumbnail. "We aren't confiscating the tape; we simply want it run. We're guarding it."
"Why?" Crayley asked bluntly.
Greene pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "This is a communication from Berin Klythe to the Construction Command of the Space Force. In it, he notified us that the test would be run today. He also says—" Greene held up the paper. "Quote: 'due to the fact that the Space Force has insisted that I use their technicians for the recording of this unit, I hardly feel I can claim that the recording is up to my usual standards. Had I been permitted to use my own men, I am sure better construction would have been obtained.'" Greene replaced the paper in his pocket.
"Naturally," he continued, "we don't think there is anything really wrong with the recording. Klythe, like myself, was a perfectionist. However, we would like to have the tape played before an examining board in order to clear ourselves and possibly clear Berin's own name. I watched the construction from beginning to end, and I could find no fault with it. However, we want a qualified board to check it. You see—" He coughed apologetically. "—I trained those technicians myself."
Crayley nodded. "I see."
There was nothing he could do. If he objected, they'd know who gimmicked the tape. Well, no matter. They'd know how Berin Klythe had died, but they wouldn't know who had done it.
He was in hot water, and he knew it, but he wasn't licked yet.
If only he hadn't tried to play his part so well! If only he'd gone straight to the control room instead of down below! Nothing to do about it now, he told himself. He couldn't waste time wishing he'd done something else; he had to see what could be done next.
Two hours later, the big jet job carrying the special Executive inquiry board landed on the roof of North American Sub-nucleonics. Crayley himself had to do all the honors. As Acting Director, he had to play host to the men who were—although they did not know it yet—investigating the murder of Berin Klythe.