"You're the man who designed the power plant," Wallingford said sweetly. "If you don't know how to run her, nobody does." "My time per hour is worth a great deal," Mike pointed out. "The rate of pay for a Space Service officer," Basil Wallingford said pleasantly, "is fixed by law." "I can fight being called back to duty--and I'll win," said Mike. He didn't know how long he could play this game, but it was fun. "True," said Wallingford. "You can. I admit it. But you've been wondering what the hell that ship is being built for. You'd give your left arm to find out. I know you, Golden Wings, and I know how that mind of yours works. And I tell you this: Unless you take this job, you'll _never_ find out why the _Branchell_ was built." He leaned forward, and his face loomed large in the screen. "And I mean absolutely _never_." For several seconds Mike the Angel said nothing. His classically handsome face was like that of some Grecian god contemplating the Universe, or an archangel contemplating Eternity. Then he gave Basil Wallingford the benefit of his full, radiant smile. "I capitulate," he said. Wallingford refused to look impressed. "Damn right you do," he said--and cut the circuit. 7 Two days later Mike the Angel was sitting at his desk making certain that M. R. GABRIEL, POWER DESIGN would function smoothly while he was gone. Serge Paulvitch, his chief designer, could handle almost everything. Paulvitch had once said, "Mike, the hell of working for a first-class genius is that a second-class genius doesn't have a chance." "You could start your own firm," Mike had said levelly. "I'll back you, Serge; you know that." Serge Paulvitch had looked astonished. "Me? You think I'm crazy? Right now, I'm a second-class genius working for a first-class outfit. You think I want to be a second-class genius working for a second-class outfit? Not on your life!" Paulvitch could easily handle the firm for a few weeks. Helen's face came on the phone. "There's a Captain Sir Henry Quill on the phone, Mr. Gabriel. Do you wish to speak to him?" "Black Bart?" said Mike. "I wonder what he wants." "Bart?" She looked puzzled. "He said his name was Henry." Mike grinned. "He always signs his name: _Captain Sir Henry Quill, Bart._ And since he's the toughest old martinet this side of the Pleiades, the 'Black' part just comes naturally. I served under him seven years ago. Put him on." In half a second the grim face of Captain Quill was on the screen. He was as bald as an egg. What little hair he did have left was meticulously shaved off every morning. He more than made up for his lack of cranial growth, however, by his great, shaggy, bristly brows, black as jet and firmly anchored to jutting supraorbital ridges. Any other man would have been proud to wear them as mustaches. "What can I do for you, Captain?" Mike asked, using the proper tone of voice prescribed for the genial businessman.