"Oh, nobody's killed," Wallingford said quickly. "I didn't mean that. But Jack Wong turned his car over yesterday at a hundred and seventy miles an hour, and he's laid up with a fractured leg and a badly dislocated arm." "Too bad," said Mike. "One of these days that fool will kill himself racing." He knew Wong and liked him. They had served together in the Space Service when Mike was on active duty. "I hope not," Wallingford said. "Anyway--the matter I called you on last night. Can you get those specs for me?" "Sure, Wally. Hold on." He punched the hold button and rang for his secretary as Wallingford's face vanished. When the girl's face came on, he said: "Helen, get me the cargo specs on the _William Branchell_--Section Twelve, pages 66 to 74." The discussion, after Helen had brought the papers, lasted less than five minutes. It was merely a matter of straightening out some cost estimates--but since it had to do with the _Branchell_, and specifically with Hold Number One, Mike decided he'd ask a question. "Wally, tell me--what in the hell is going on down there at Chilblains Base?" "They're building a spaceship," said Wallingford in a flat voice. It was Wallingford's way of saying he wasn't going to answer any questions, but Mike the Angel ignored the hint. "I'd sort of gathered that," he said dryly. "But what I want to know is: Why is it being built around a cryotronic brain, the like of which I have never heard before?" Basil Wallingford's eyes widened, and he just stared for a full two seconds. "And just how did you come across that information, Golden Wings?" he finally asked. "It's right here in the specs," said Mike the Angel, tapping the sheaf of papers. "Ridiculous." Wallingford's voice seemed toneless. Mike decided he was in too deep now to back out. "It certainly is, Wally. It couldn't be hidden. To compute the thrust stresses, I had to know the density of the contents of Cargo Hold One. And here it is: 1.726 gm/cm cubed. Nothing else that I know of has that exact density." Wallingford pursed his lips. "Dear me," he said after a moment. "I keep forgetting you're too bright for your own good." Then a slow smile spread over his face. "Would you _really_ like to know?" "I wouldn't have asked otherwise," Mike said. "Fine. Because you're just the man we need." Mike the Angel could almost feel the knife blade sliding between his ribs, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that the person who had stabbed him in the back was himself. "What's that supposed to mean, Wally?" "You are, I believe, an officer in the Space Service Reserve," said Basil Wallingford in a smooth, too oily voice. "Since the Engineering Officer of the _Branchell_, Jack Wong, is laid up in a hospital, I'm going to call you to active duty to replace him." Mike the Angel felt that ghostly knife twist--hard. "That's silly," he said. "I haven't been a ship's officer for five years."