"There's a Mr. McLeod waiting to see you," his secretary informed him. "He says he has an appointment."
"Send him in," Walton said. "And have Mr. Percy come up here also."
While he waited for McLeod to arrive, Walton riffled through the rest of the telefax sheets. Some of them praised Popeek for having uncovered a new world; others damned them for having hidden news of the faster-than-light drive so long. Walton stacked them neatly in a heap at the edge of his desk.
In the bleak, dark hours of the morning, he had expected to be compelled to resign. Now, he realized, he could immeasurably strengthen his own position if he could control the flow of events and channel them properly.
The square figure of McLeod appeared on the screen. Walton admitted him.
"Sir. I'm McLeod."
"Of course. Won't you sit down?"
McLeod was tense, stiffly formal, very British in his reserve and general bearing. Walton gestured uneasily, trying to cut through the crackle of nervousness.
"We seem to have a mess on our hands," he said. "But there's no mess so messy we can't muddle through it, eh?"
"If we have to, sir. But I can't help feeling this could all have been avoided."