"Oh." Morely turned his attention back to the memo. "Have them wait." He waved a hand in dismissal and went on with his reading. The beautification program was progressing well. Twenty miles of the old main highway through the valley had been completely cleared and planted. Crews were working on another stretch. The foreman of the wrecking crew down at the point, in Sector Nine, reported that the last bit of scrap had been removed from the old bridge support. Underwater crews had salvaged the cables and almost all of the metal from the fallen bridge itself, and the scrap was on the beach, ready for delivery to the reclamation mills in District One. Morely smiled sourly. Harwood would have a storage problem on his hands in a day or so. The delay in delivery could be explained and justified. Morely had seen to that. Now, all the material was ready and could be delivered in one lot. Harwood would have to raise his production quota in his community mills to use up the excess material, and that would slow down the clean-up in District One. The Old Man couldn't help but notice, and he'd see who was efficient in his region. The district leader pushed the memo sheets aside and placed his hands behind his head. Slowly, he pivoted his chair, to look at the entertainment screen. He started to energize it, then drew his hand back. So that crackpot, Graham, had finally come up with something definite. Morely smiled again. It had almost seemed as though the man had been stalling for a while. But the pressure and the veiled threats had been productive--again. To be sure, the agents covering that project had reported that the device seemed to be merely another fairly good means of communication--nothing of any tremendous importance. But results had been obtained, and a communicator which was reasonably free from interception and which required relatively low power might be of some value to the community. He might be able to get a commendation out of it, at least. And even if it were unsuitable for defense, there'd be a new product for one of the luxury products plants in the district, and the district would get royalties from the manufacturer. Too, it would keep people busy and make 'em spend more of their credits. He grimaced at his vague reflection in the screen before him, and spoke aloud. "That's the way to get things done. Make 'em know who's in charge. And let 'em know that no nonsense will be tolerated. Breathe down their necks a little. They'll produce." He cleared his throat and spun around, to punch the button on his desk. * * * * * The door opened and the clerk stood, respectfully awaiting orders. "Send in Bond and the people with him." The clerk stepped back, turning his head. "You may go in now, sir." He disappeared around the door. Harold Bond stepped through the doorway, followed by two men. Morely looked at them closely. Engineers, he thought. "What have you got?" he demanded.