Thomas nodded silently. The forfeit--if this whole gang bopped their contracts back he'd lose his shirt. He watched them file out. And his eyes dropped from their stare out of the window to the pile of questions on the desk. A pile of production problems! Sheer, unadulterated hell. Well, he might as well call the engineer and let him handle this. It was one of the things that the engineer got a kick out of. As a physicist, this was not his job--and as an intelligent physicist, he did know how to get things done. Everything for its own use; if he didn't know, he knew where to find out. * * * * * Thomas went out to the laboratory and faced his tungsten box. A twinge of wonder flashed through his mind. It bothered him. _Was this an admission of partial defeat?_ Not at all. This was good sense. Call in the engineer to clear up this mess, since his income and well-being depended upon it. Once these contracts were clear and closed--well, time enough! He pressed the button. And Thomas Lionel, Ph.D., M.M., pressed it again. And again-- And again. And then took a suspicious glance at the oxy-hydrogen torch on the table. A growing fear hit him. Tungsten wouldn't budge under an acetylene torch. Acids were not too effective, and plain, old-fashioned cutting tools were sheer foolishness. But heat the block white hot and hit it with an oxygen lance-- Thomas looked on the back side. Uh-huh. The engineer had enjoyed himself. The back side of his little tungsten wave generator had been poked full of ragged holes; cut in ribbons with the oxygen lance, and generally made messy. The wave-guides and channels were all un-terminated and laid open. Pushing the button wouldn't do a thing. It definitely would not call the engineer. He had twenty-four hours to solve the production people's problems. And Thomas Lionel understood. The engineer had his own little trap. No doubt the engineer would go fishing if called, and only the physicist was really interested in fighting this thing out to the bitter end. The engineer, losing already, had only a bank account to throw away by not working. And the engineer could get another one soon enough if permitted to do so. Twenty-four hours. Thomas headed in toward the house to get his notebook and his engineering notes. He'd have to take over the engineer's job, no matter how distasteful. Out of one corner of his eye he saw the chessboard and he stopped short. It had been the odd angle that gave the trap away but his moving of the knight had opened a line right down into his own defenses. On the next move there would be a severe attack against his queen, and in saving that, he'd lose the bishop. If he sacrificed the queen, he was as good as lost. In fact, it was checkmate no matter how long he fought; no matter what he did, it was only a question of three moves minimum or seven moves maximum.