“Ho there, Hutch,” he said huskily, “How’re you getting on?”

“Not bad.” Hutchman was flustered and aware he was showing it. “Not badly, I mean.”

Spain’s grin widened as he sensed he was on to something. He was a short, balding, untidy man with slate-gray jowls and an almost pathological desire to know everything possible about the private lives of his colleagues. His preference was for material of a scandalous nature, but failing that any kind of information was almost equally acceptable. Over the years Hutchman had developed a fascinated dread of the little man and his patient, ferretting methods.

“Anybody asking about me this morning?” Spain came right into the office.

“Not that I know of. You’re safe for another week.”

Spain recognized the gibe about his outside work and his eyes locked knowingly with Hutchman’s for an instant. Suddenly Hutchman felt contaminated, wished he had not made the reference which somehow had associated him with Spain’s activities.

“What’s the smell in here?” Spain’s face appeared concerned. “Something on fire?”

“The waste bin was smouldering. I threw a butt into it.”

Spain’s eyes shone with gleeful disbelief. “Did you, Hutch? Did you? You might have burned the whole factory down.”

Hutchman shrugged, picked up a file from his desk, and began studying its contents. It was a summary of performance data from a test firing of a pair of Jack-and-Jill missiles. He had already abstracted as much information as he required from it, but he hoped Spain would take the hint and leave.

“Were you watching television last night?” Spain said, his throaty voice slurring with pleasure.

“Can’t remember.” Hutchman shuffled graph papers determinedly.