"All right," said Alan, "I'll do it. I'm a ham at heart. When do you want me?"
"Tomorrow night at eight vacant?"
"As vacant as—" he was going to say "Dr. Getty's head," but caught himself in time. The TV man's flippancy was contagious. "Quite vacant. Give Brave the directions and we'll be there."
Brave said, "Breakfast is on. There are three plates and food for two. I hope you eat lightly, Mr. Portent."
"McEldownie, but call me Jim. I eat like a bird."
The bird, thought Alan half an hour later, must be a starving turkey buzzard; he sighed and stood up. "We're due at work, Jim. See you at eight tomorrow, then?"
"Seven-fifteen. I have to brief you. Cheers, gentlemen. Apologize to the cat for me. I insulted it a while back and it's been burning holes in my neck ever since." He took himself off, still with the illusion of rattling bonily. Alan and Brave washed up and strolled down to their laboratory.
Nothing happened that day or the next, save for a thorough search for the missing welder, which turned up no trace of him. At seven-fifteen the two friends walked into the TV studio in Manhattan.
"Hi," said McEldownie, waving a long hand. "Sit down and let's gurgle about fuel." They did so. At one point the lean man said, "An idea. What if Brave were to stand behind you all through the program? It'd look impressive as hell. Sinister Indian guards scientist even on national hookup. 'No precaution too elaborate for our men,' says head of Project Star. How about it?"
Alan looked at Brave. He would not expose his friend to stupid ridicule. Brave winked. "Okay," said Alan. "But no gags."