«Me?»

«You. You're an operator for this job – with pay to match. Bounce over to the port – there will be a rocket and a credit facsimile waiting for you. You ought to be able to raise ground in seven or eight minutes.»

Carson blinked. «How about my job here?»

«The engineering department will be told, likewise the accounting. Get going.»

Without replying Carson headed for the door. By the time he reached it he was hurrying.

Carson's departure left them with nothing to do until he reported back – nothing to do, that is, but to start action on the manifold details of reproducing the physical and cultural details of three other planets and four major satellites, exclusive of their characteristic surface-normal gravitational accelerations. The assignment, although new, presented no real difficulties – to General Services. Somewhere there were persons who knew all the answers to these matters. The vast loose organization called General Services was geared to find them, hire them, put them to work. Any of the unlimited operators and a considerable percent of the catalogue operators could take such an assignment and handle it without excitement or hurry.

Francis called in one unlimited operator. He did not even bother to select him, but took the first available on the ready panel – they were all «Can do!» people. He explained in detail the assignment, then promptly forgot about it. It would be done, and on time. The punched-card machines would chatter a bit louder, stereo screens would flash, and bright young people in all parts of the Earth would drop what they were doing and dig out the specialists who would do the actual work.

He turned back to Clare, who said, «I wish I knew what Beaumont is up to. Conference of scientists – phooey!»

«I thought you weren't interested in politics, Jay.»

«I'm not. I don't give a hoot in hell about politics, interplanetary or otherwise, except as it affects this business. But if I knew what was being planned, we might be able to squeeze a bigger cut out of it.»

«Well,» put in Grace, «I think you can take it for granted that the real heavyweights from all the planets are about to meet and divide Gaul into three parts.»

«Yes, but who gets cut out?»

«Mars, I suppose.»

«Seems likely. With a bone tossed to the Venerians. In that case we might speculate a little in Pan-Jovian Trading Corp.»

«Easy, son, easy,» Francis warned. «Do that, and you might get people interested. This is a hush-hush job.»

«I guess you're right. Still, keep your eyes open. There ought to be some way to cut a slice of pie before this is over.»

Grace Cormet's telephone buzzed. She took it out of her pocket and said, «Yes?»

«A Mrs. Hogbein Johnson wants to speak to you.»

«You handle her. I'm off the board.»

«She won't talk to anyone but you.»

«All right. Put her on the Chief's stereo, but stay in parallel yourself. You'll handle it after I've talked to her.»

The screen came to life, showing Mrs. Johnson's fleshy face alone, framed in the middle of the screen in flat picture. «Oh, Miss Cormet,» she moaned, «some dreadful mistake has been made. There is no stereo on this ship.»

«It will be installed in Cincinnati. That will be in about twenty minutes.»

«You are sure ?»

«Quite sure.»

«Oh, thank you! It's such a relief to talk with you. Do you know, I'm thinking of making you my social secretary.»

«Thank you,» Grace replied evenly, «but I am under contract.»

«But how stupidly tiresome! You can break it.»

«No, I'm sorry Mrs. Johnson. Good-by.» She switched off the screen and spoke again into her telephone. «Tell Accounting to double her fee. And I won't speak with her again.» She cut off and shoved the little instrument savagely back into her pocket. «Social secretary!»

It was after dinner and Clare had retired to his living apartment before Carson called back. Francis took the call in his own office.

«Any luck?» he asked, when Carson's image had built up. «Quite a bit. I've seen O'Neil.»

«Well? Will he do it?»

«You mean can he do it, don't you?»

«Well – can he?»

«Now that is a funny thing – I didn't think it was theoretically possible. But after talking with him, I'm convinced that it is. O'Neil has a new outlook on field theory – stuff he's never published. The man is a genius.»

«I don't care,» said Francis, «whether he's a genius or a Mongolian idiot – can he build some sort of a gravity thinner-outer?»

«I believe he can. I really do believe he can.»

«Fine. You hired him?»

«No, That's the hitch. That's why I called back. It's like this: I happened to catch him in a mellow mood, and because we had worked together once before and because I had not aroused his ire quite as frequently as his other assistants he invited me to stay for dinner. We talked about a lot of things (you can't hurry him) and I broached the proposition. It interested him mildly – the idea, I mean; not the proposition – and he discussed the theory with me, or, rather, at me. But he won't work on it.»

«Why not? You didn't offer him enough money. I guess I'd better tackle him.»

«No, Mr. Francis, no. You don't understand. He's not interested in money. He's independently wealthy and has more than he needs for his research, or anything else he wants. But just at present he is busy on wave mechanics theory and he just won't be bothered with anything else.»

«Did you make him realize it was important?»

«Yes and no. Mostly no. I tried to, but there isn't anything important to him but what he wants. It's a sort of intellectual snobbishness. Other people simply don't count.»

«All right,» said Francis. «You've done well so far. Here's what you do: After I switch off, you call EXECUTIVE and make a transcript of everything you can remember of what he said about gravitational theory. We'll hire the next best men, feed it to them, and see if it gives them any ideas to work on. In the meantime I'll put a crew to work on the details of Dr. O'Neil's background. He'll have a weak point somewhere; it's just a matter of finding it. Maybe he's keeping a woman somewhere – »

«He's long past that.»

» – or maybe he has a by-blow stashed away somewhere. We'll see. I want you to stay there in Portage. Since you can't hire him, maybe you can persuade him to hire you. You're our pipeline, I want it kept open. We've got to find something he wants, or something he is afraid of.»

«He's not afraid of anything. I'm positive of that.»

«Then he wants something. If it's not money, or women, it's something else. It's a law of nature.»

«I doubt it,» Carson replied slowly. «Say! Did I tell you about his hobby?»

«No. What is it?»

«It's china. In particular, Ming china. He has the best collection in the world, I'd guess. But I know what he wants!»

«Well, spill it, man, spill it. Don't be dramatic.»

«It's a little china dish, or bowl, about four inches across and two inches high. It's got a Chinese name that means 'Flower of Forgetfulness.' »

«Hmmm – doesn't seem significant. You think he wants it pretty bad?»

«I know he does. He has a solid colorgraph of it in his study, where he can look at it. But it hurts him to talk about it.»

«Find out who owns it and where it is.»

«I know. British Museum. That's why he can't buy it.»

«So?» mused Francis. «Well, you can forget it. Carry on.»

Clare came down to Francis' office and the three talked it over. «I guess we'll need Beaumont on this,» was his comment when he had heard the report. «It will take the Government to get anything loose from the British Museum.» Francis looked morose. «Well – what's eating you? What's wrong with that?»

«I know,» offered Grace. «You remember the treaty under which Great Britain entered the planetary confederation?»