A picture formed on the screen: a heavily-tanned man in his late forties, stocky, hair close cropped. "Sorry to roust you this way, old man. I'm McLeod."
Walton came fully awake in an instant. "McLeod? Where are you?"
"Out on Long Island. I just pulled into the airport half a moment ago. Traveled all night after dumping the ship at Nairobi."
"You made a good landing, I hope?"
"The best. The ship navigates like a bubble." McLeod frowned worriedly. "They brought me the early-morning telefax while I was having breakfast. I couldn't help reading all about the speech you made last night."
"Oh. I—"
"Quite a crasher of a speech," McLeod went on evenly. "But don't you think it was a little premature of you to release word of my flight. I mean—"
"It was quite premature," Walton said. "A member of my staff inserted that statement into my talk without my knowledge. He'll be disciplined for it."
A puzzled frown appeared on McLeod's face. "But you made that speech with your own lips! How can you blame it on a member of your staff?"
"The science that can send a ship to Procyon and back within a year," Walton said, "can also fake a speech. But I imagine we'll be able to cover up the pre-release without too much trouble."