"We'd have to send a pretty rare kind of a repair man, Mike," he said, coming back to sit on the corner of his desk and glower down at me. That was about his kindest expression. "Yes," I agreed. "You need somebody who can test and diagnose, and then make a repair." "And who is an astronaut, too," he said. "I wonder if there is such a thing?" "Make one," I suggested. He scowled a little more fiercely. "Explain that," he ordered. "I figure you could take one of our men from my laboratory, who knows how to test the gate, and a man who is handy enough with miniature components to cut out the one that failed and replace it, and teach him how to get around in a spacesuit. That would surer than hell be quicker than taking one of these hot-shot astronauts and teaching him solid-state physics." "Yes," he agreed, looking down his fingers. "That was a pretty sneaky way to get out from between Fred Stone and me, young man." I couldn't resist it: "That's what took most of the three days," I said, just a little too smugly. "I liked you better in the middle," Cleary grumped. "Well, you have a thought, and it calls for a conference." He took his coat off again, hung it on the clothes tree, came back to his desk and got on the phone. "Sylvia? Have Fred Stone come up, and you come in with him, eh? That's a dear." He racked up the instrument and smiled at me as he stoked his pipe into more activity. "Relax," he advised me. "It always takes a while to round up Fred Stone." He wanted no small talk, so I fidgeted in my chair while Cleary rocked gently in his. In about ten minutes, curly-headed Sylvia brought Dr. Stone in with her. * * * * * It was, "Hello, Fred," and "Hello there, Paul," when they came in. Sylvia didn't have anything to say, although she gave me a hot-eyed glance before pulling out the dictation board on Paul Cleary's desk and making herself comfortable with her notebook. Cleary offered Doc Stone some of his tobacco, which was politely refused. The old man began it: "Your Dr. Seaman has quite an idea, Fred," he said, in a mild, kindly voice, with a dumb, guileless look on his face. "Good, Paul," Doc Stone smiled thinly. "I've told you he's a good boy." "Hm-m-m," said Cleary. "He says his tests can't prove what went wrong with the switching gate on the satellites, and in effect that the telemetry doesn't make it plain whether we have design or assembly trouble." "Well, _well_!" said Fred Stone. I decided to start shopping for a marker for my grave. "Yes," Cleary said. "He made quite a suggestion, that we send a man out in space to look over the Telstars and find out what went wrong. Even better, he says it might be possible to make a repair at the same time and get the bird working. You can see the advantages of doing that, the way they are orbiting." "Yes, indeed," Doc Stone said, looking at me with slitted eyes. "Quite a unique adventure for some technician."