almost got killed," Wallingford pointed out.

"A miss is as good as a mile," Mike said with cheerful inanity. "Thanks
to your phone call, I was as safe as if I'd been in my own home," he
added with utter illogic.

"You can afford to laugh," Wallingford said grimly. "I can't. I've
already lost one man."

Mike's grin vanished. "What do you mean? Who?"

"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