He went up to his room, switched on the air conditioning and lay down. After a while his heart stopped thumping, and the sweat on his neck and back dried. He got up, peeled off the sticky clothes, called down for ice cubes. A tall drink and a quick shower, and it was twelve-thirty. He might still catch Harbridge for lunch. The General was out, the Decagon switchboard said. He should be back by two. Chris left his name. “Please have him call me as soon as he gets back,” he said. It was a relief, in a way. He ordered lunch sent up, and ate in comfort in the room, without having to venture out into the street again. As he ate, he pulled out his notebook and pencil, and started figuring. A small smile settled on his mouth, while his second cup of coffee cooled in the pot. His pie sat forgotten on the back of the tray. Names and figures and layouts and lists of equipment filled page after page, as Dr. Christensen practiced the day-to-day magic of modern science: fitting five pet projects into the money allotted for one. Twice, he stopped to make calls out: the first to New York, the second to St. Thomas. He was smiling grimly over a column of figures when they buzzed back, and he reached for it unthinkingly. He had already flicked the switch when he thought of his rumpled shirtsleeves, and the messy lunch tray still in view. Too late.... It wasn’t Harbridge anyhow; it was Kutler, from New York. “Phil, for krissake! How’ve you been?” “Mostly good. I got a message here to call you back--what brings you down to Earth? I thought you took vows up there--?” “Damn near.” He laughed. “Only thing I come down for is begging trips. Say, what’s the chances of getting together while I’m here? I’ve got a couple of ideas I’d like to toss around with you.” “What’s on your mind?” “Couple of things. I’ll tell you, I’d just as lief not do it on the phone. Any chance of getting you down here?” The other man hesitated, looked down at something on his desk. “Over the weekend, I guess,” he said. “What’s your schedule?” Chris shook his head. “I have to be at the base tomorrow afternoon.” But there was nothing really to keep him in Mexcity till then. He didn’t mind traveling: flying was more comfortable a lot of ways than sitting still, and he had enough vanity left to relish his VIP’s privilege of a seat on the Mexcity-New York mail rocket--thirty-two minutes, pad to cradle. “Suppose I make it up your way?” he suggested. “Could we get together for a couple of hours? Tonight, maybe? Or tomorrow?” “Tonight would be better,” Kutler said. “I don’t see where I could squeeze anything in at all during the day. Look--can you give me _any_ idea what’s on your mind?” “Well, this much at least: I need a psycher to do a job for us. It’s a big job. And I think you might be the right guy. There’s nothing secret about it, really, but it just happens to be tied up sideways with a Security problem, so--that’s all I can say on the phone.”