"It doesn't matter much," Clements answered unsympathetically. "It's where he is now that counts." Jordan shook his head. "There has to be a way out. A clean, quick way out." After a moment's thought Clements said, "Isn't there a regulation about orbital debris?" Jordan nodded dully. "Someplace. Number 710.1, I think. Hasn't been invoked in years. Once they stopped using chemical fuels, we stopped having wrecks." "Still," Clements went on more eagerly, "Beta's really a piece of debris, isn't it? It's not working or transmitting or whatever it was supposed to do, is it?" "No." Jordan shrugged impatiently. "But, good grief, this thing isn't debris. Debris is ... is big _chunks_ of things; broken up space stations, or ... or nuclear engines and things like that." "Hell, no, chief," yelled Clements, jumping to his feet. "This is debris, pure and simple. That's your answer!" Jordan's eyes slowly brightened. "Clem, maybe you're right. Regulation 710.1 says that any orbital debris constituting a demonstrable menace to navigation may be destroyed at the discretion of this office." He brushed his hands together with finality. "That should do it." Suddenly Clements' enthusiasm degenerated to a faint smile. "I've just got to wondering, chief. Do we dare go right ahead with this?" Amos Jordan's eyes took on a piercing glitter of command. "This is our job, Clements. We should have done it long ago. Get Statistical and have them find out how much boogie time is consumed in plugging that silly thing into every takeoff problem. Multiply that by all the launch stations. Convert it into man-hours per year and make that into a dollar figure. That always scares the wits out a Congressman. They'll knuckle under...." He paused and cocked an ear toward the door. A faint hubbub was now percolating through from the receptionist's lobby. It grew louder. Suddenly the door opened, letting in a roaring babble, as Geraldine ... the usually poker-faced secretary ... leaped through and slammed it shut again. Her eyes, behind their thick lenses, were round and a little wild. "It's General Criswell and Admiral Flack," she panted. "They insist on seeing you." She gasped for breath and added, as though she could not quite believe her own words, "And ... and ... oh, Mr. Jordan; they're _quarreling_!" Jordan said, "Quarreling? Two staff men quarreling?" He looked uncertainly at Clements. "I thought there was a regulation against that?" Clements gave a palms up shrug. "Well, there is," snapped Jordan. "Has something to do with interservice unity or something ... been on the books for years. Send them in, Gerry." Tentatively she opened the door and almost had time to gesture before being bowled over by the visitors. * * * * * Admiral Flack had the advantage of volume, and Jordan got his message first.