"No, but Mr. Farrell does, and will so advise me." Wes looked at Channing. "Have you been to the Ninth Level yet?" "Nope," said Channing. "May I accompany you?" Channing looked at Farrell critically. The Terran Electric engineer seemed sincere, and the pained expression on his face looked like frustrated sympathy to Don. "Come along," he said. * * * * * Barney smiled cheerfully at the sign on Joe's door. "That's a good one, 'Best Bar in Twenty-seven Million Miles, Minimum!' What's the qualification for?" "That's as close as Terra ever gets. Most of the time the nearest bar is at Northern Landing, Venus; sixty-seven million miles from here. Come on in and we'll get plastered." Farrell said, "Look, fellows, I know how you feel. They didn't tell me that you weren't going to be given permission to work. I understood that I was to sort of walk along, offer suggestions and sort of prepare myself to take over some research myself. This is sickening." "I think you mean that." "May I use your telephone? I want to resign." "Wait a minute. If you're that sincere, why don't we outguess 'em?" "Could do," said Wes. "How?" "Is there any reason why we couldn't take a poke to Sol himself?" "You mean haul power out of the sun?" "That's the general idea. Barney, what do you think?" "Could be--but it would take a redesign." "Fine. And may we pray that the redesign is good enough to make a difference to the Interplanetary Patent Office." Channing called Joe, "The same. Three Moons all around. Scotch," he explained to the others, "synthesized in the Palanortis Country." "Our favorite import," said Walt. Joe grinned. "Another tablecloth session in progress?" "Could be. As soon as we oil the think-tank, we'll know for sure." "What does he mean?" asked Barney. Joe smiled. "They all have laboratories and draftsmen and textbooks," he said. "But for real engineering, they use my tablecloths. Three more problems and I'll have a complete tablecloth course in astrophysics, with a sideline in cartooning and a minor degree in mechanical engineering." "Oh?" "Sure. Give 'em a free hand, and a couple of your tubes and a tablecloth and they'll have 'em frying eggs by morning. When I came out here, they demanded a commercial bond and I thought they were nuts. Who ever heard of making a restaurateur post a bond? I discovered that all of their inventions are initially tinkered out right here in the dining room--I could steal 'em blind if I were dishonest!" Joe smiled hugely. "This is the only place in the System where the tablecloths have been through blueprint machines. That," he said confidentially to Barney, "is why some of the stuff is slightly garbled. Scotch mixed with the drawings. They have the cloths inspected by the engineering department before they're laundered; I lose a lot of tablecloths that way." Joe left cheerfully amid laughter.