anies didn't want
amateurs fooling around with robots; they'd much rather build the robots
themselves and rent them out. They couldn't make do-it-yourself projects
impossible, but they could make them difficult.

In a way, there was some good done. So far, the JD's hadn't gone into
big-scale robotics. Self-controlled bombs could be rather nasty.

Adult criminals, of course, already had them. But an adult criminal who
had the money to invest in robotic components, or went to the trouble to
steal them, had something more lucrative in mind than street fights or
robbing barrooms. To crack a bank, for instance, took a cleverly
constructed, well-designed robot and plenty of ingenuity on the part of
the operator.

Mike the Angel didn't want to make bombs or automatic bankrobbers; he
just wanted to fiddle with the stack, see what it would do. He turned it
over in his hands a couple of times, then shrugged, got up, went over to
his closet, and put the thing away. There wasn't anything he could do
with it until he'd bought a cryostat--a liquid helium refrigerator. A
cryotron functions only at temperatures near absolute zero.

The phone chimed.

Mike went over to it, punched the switch, and said: "Gabriel speaking."

No image formed on the screen. A voice said: "Sorry, wrong number."
There was a slight click, and the phone went dead. Mike shrugged and
punched the cutoff. Sounded like a woman. He vaguely wished he could
have seen her face.

Mike got up and walked back to his easy chair. He had no sooner sat down
than the phone chimed again. Damn!

Up again. Back to the phone.

"Gabriel speaking."

Again, no image formed.

"Look, lady," Mike said, "why don't you look up the number you want
instead of bothering me?"

Suddenly there was an image. It was the face of an elderly man with a
mild, reddish face, white hair, and a cold look in his pale blue eyes.
It was Basil Wallingford, the Minister for Spatial Affairs.

He said: "Mike, I wasn't aware that your position was such that you
could afford to be rude to a Portfolio of the Earth Government." His
voice was flat, without either anger or humor.

"I'm not sure it is, myself," admitted Mike the Angel, "but I do the
best I can with the tools I have to work with. I didn't know it was you,
Wally. I just had some wrong-number trouble. Sorry."

"Mf.... Well.... I called to tell you that the _Branchell_ is ready for
your final inspection. Or will be, that is, in a week."