rs back. Put it-- Let ma see, now...."

And he'd go to his wall ladder, push it along that narrow hallway,
moving boxes aside as he went, and stop somewhere along the wall. Then
he'd scramble up the ladder, pull out a bin, fumble around in it, and
come out with the article in question. He'd blow the dust off it, polish
it with a rag, scramble down the ladder, and say: "Here 'tis. Thought I
had one. Let's go back in the back and give her a test."

On the other hand, if he didn't have what you wanted, he'd shake his
head just a trifle, then squint up at you and say: "What d'ye want it
for?" And if you could tell him what you planned to do with the piece
you wanted, nine times out of ten he could come up with something else
that would do the job as well or better.

In either case, he always insisted that the piece be tested. He refused
either to buy or sell something that didn't work. So you'd follow him
down that long hallway to the lab in the rear, where all the testing
equipment was. The lab, too, was cluttered, but in a different way. Out
front, the stuff was dead; back here, there was power coursing through
the ionic veins and metallic nerves of the half-living machines. Things
were labeled in neat, accurate script--not for Old Harry's benefit, but
for the edification of his customers, so they wouldn't put their fingers
in the wrong places. He never had to worry about whether his customers
knew enough to fend for themselves; a few minutes spent in talking was
enough to tell Harry whether a man knew enough about the science and art
of electronics and sub-electronics to be trusted in the lab. If you
didn't measure up, you didn't get invited to the lab, even to watch a
test.

But he had very few people like that; nobody came into Harry MacDougal's
place unless he was pretty sure of what he wanted and how he wanted to
use it.

On the other hand, there were very few men whom Harry would allow into
the lab unescorted. Mike the Angel was one of them.

Meet Mike the Angel. Full name: Michael Raphael Gabriel. (His mother had
tagged that on him at the time of his baptism, which had made his father
wince in anticipated compassion, but there had been nothing for him to
say--not in the middle of the ceremony.)

Naturally, he had been tagged "Mike the Angel." Six feet seven. Two
hundred sixty pounds. Thirty-four years of age. Hair: golden yellow.
Eyes: deep blue. Cash value of holdings: well into eight figures.
Credit: almo