know all the principles and all
the tricks of organization and communication, and you've got to be
able to waltz your way around all the roadblocks that are caused by
Government laws--some of which have been floating around on the books
of one nation or another for two or three centuries.

Did you know that there's a law on the American statute books that
forbids the landing of a spaceship within one hundred miles of a city?
That was passed back when they were using rockets, but it's never been
repealed. Technically, then, it's almost impossible to land a ship
anywhere on the North American continent. Long Island Spaceport is
openly flouting the law, if you want to look at it that way.

A managerial combine has to know all those little things and know how
to get around them. It has to be able to have the confidence of the
stock-holders of a corporation--if it's run on the Western Plan--or
the confidence of communal owners if it's run on the Eastern Plan.

Something like this could snowball on Ravenhurst. It isn't only the
rats that desert a sinking ship; so does anyone else who has any
sense.

"What I want to know, Mr. Oak," Ravenhurst continued, "is who is
behind this plot, whether an individual or a group. I want to know
identity and motivation."

"Is that all?" I eyed him skeptically.

"No. Of course not. I want you to make sure that the MG-YR-7 isn't
sabotaged. I want you to make sure it's protected from whatever kind
of monkey wrenches are being thrown into its works."

"It's nearly ready for testing now, isn't it?" I asked.

"It is ready. It seems to be in perfect condition so far. Viking is
already looking for a test pilot. It's still in working order now, and
I want to be certain that it will remain so."

I cocked my head to one side and gave him my Interrogative And
Suspicious Glance--Number 9 in the manual. "You didn't do any checking
on the first six McGuire ships. You wait until this one is done before
calling me. Why the delay, Ravenhurst?"

It didn't faze him. "I became suspicious after McGuire 6 failed. I put
Colonel Brock on it."

I nodded. I'd had dealings with Brock. He was head of Ravenhurst's
Security Guard. "Brock didn't get anywhere," I said.

"He did not. His own face is too well known for him to have
investigated personally, and he's not enough of an actor to get away
with using a plexiskin mask. He had to use underlings. And I'm afraid
some of them might be in the pay of the ...