It was Wallingford’s way of saying he wasn’t going to answer any questions, but Mike the Angel ignored the hint. “I’d sort of gathered that,” he said dryly. “But what I want to know is: Why is it being built around a cryotronic brain, the like of which I have never heard before?”
Basil Wallingford’s eyes widened, and he just stared for a full two seconds. “And just how did you come across that information, Golden Wings?” he finally asked.
“It’s right here in the specs,” said Mike the Angel, tapping the sheaf of papers.
“Ridiculous.” Wallingford’s voice seemed toneless.
Mike decided he was in too deep now to back out. “It certainly is, Wally. It couldn’t be hidden. To compute the thrust stresses, I had to know the density of the contents of Cargo Hold One. And here it is: 1.726 gm/cm³. Nothing else that I know of has that exact density.”
Wallingford pursed his lips. “Dear me,” he said after a moment. “I keep forgetting you’re too bright for your own good.” Then a slow smile spread over his face. “Would you really like to know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Mike said.
“Fine. Because you’re just the man we need.”
Mike the Angel could almost feel the knife blade sliding between his ribs, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that the person who had stabbed him in the back was himself. “What’s that supposed to mean, Wally?”
“You are, I believe, an officer in the Space Service Reserve,” said Basil Wallingford in a smooth, too oily voice. “Since the Engineering Officer of the Branchell, Jack Wong, is laid up in a hospital, I’m going to call you to active duty to replace him.”