“A miss is as good as a mile,” Mike said with cheerful inanity. “Thanks to your phone call, I was as safe as if I’d been in my own home,” he added with utter illogic.
“You can afford to laugh,” Wallingford said grimly. “I can’t. I’ve already lost one man.”
Mike’s grin vanished. “What do you mean? Who?”
“Oh, nobody’s killed,” Wallingford said quickly. “I didn’t mean that. But Jack Wong turned his car over yesterday at a hundred and seventy miles an hour, and he’s laid up with a fractured leg and a badly dislocated arm.”
“Too bad,” said Mike. “One of these days that fool will kill himself racing.” He knew Wong and liked him. They had served together in the Space Service when Mike was on active duty.
“I hope not,” Wallingford said. “Anyway—the matter I called you on last night. Can you get those specs for me?”
“Sure, Wally. Hold on.” He punched the hold button and rang for his secretary as Wallingford’s face vanished. When the girl’s face came on, he said: “Helen, get me the cargo specs on the William Branchell—Section Twelve, pages 66 to 74.”
The discussion, after Helen had brought the papers, lasted less than five minutes. It was merely a matter of straightening out some cost estimates—but since it had to do with the Branchell, and specifically with Hold Number One, Mike decided he’d ask a question.
“Wally, tell me—what in the hell is going on down there at Chilblains Base?”
“They’re building a spaceship,” said Wallingford in a flat voice.