Mike the Angel felt that ghostly knife twist—hard.
“That’s silly,” he said. “I haven’t been a ship’s officer for five years.”
“You’re the man who designed the power plant,” Wallingford said sweetly. “If you don’t know how to run her, nobody does.”
“My time per hour is worth a great deal,” Mike pointed out.
“The rate of pay for a Space Service officer,” Basil Wallingford said pleasantly, “is fixed by law.”
“I can fight being called back to duty—and I’ll win,” said Mike. He didn’t know how long he could play this game, but it was fun.
“True,” said Wallingford. “You can. I admit it. But you’ve been wondering what the hell that ship is being built for. You’d give your left arm to find out. I know you, Golden Wings, and I know how that mind of yours works. And I tell you this: Unless you take this job, you’ll never find out why the Branchell was built.” He leaned forward, and his face loomed large in the screen. “And I mean absolutely never.”
For several seconds Mike the Angel said nothing. His classically handsome face was like that of some Grecian god contemplating the Universe, or an archangel contemplating Eternity. Then he gave Basil Wallingford the benefit of his full, radiant smile.
“I capitulate,” he said.
Wallingford refused to look impressed. “Damn right you do,” he said—and cut the circuit.