“What’s the answer then?” inquired Burman, innocently ambling straight into the trap.

“There’s one and only one,” McNaught announced. “You will manufacture an offog.”

“Who? Me?” said Burman, twitching his scalp.

“You and no other. I’m fairly sure the thing is your pigeon, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s typical of the baby names used for your kind of stuff. I’ll bet a month’s pay that an offog is some sort of scientific allamagoosa. Something to do with fog, perhaps. Maybe a blind-approach gadget.”

“The blind-approach transceiver is called ‘the fumbly,’ ” Burman informed.

“There you are!” said McNaught as if that clinched it. “So you will make an offog. It will be completed by six tomorrow evening and ready for my inspection then. It had better be convincing, in fact pleasing. In fact its function will be convincing.”

Burman stood up, let his hands dangle, and said in hoarse tones, “How can I make an offog when I don’t even know what it is?”

“Neither does Cassidy know,” McNaught pointed out, leering at him. “He’s more of a quantity surveyor than anything else. As such he counts things, looks at things, certifies that they exist, accepts advice on whether they are functionally satisfactory or worn out. All we need do is concoct an imposing allamagoosa and tell him it’s the offog.”

“Holy Moses!” said Burman, fervently.

“Let us not rely on the dubious assistance of Biblical characters,” McNaught reproved. “Let us use the brains that God has given us. Get a grip on your soldering-iron and make a topnotch offog by six tomorrow evening. That’s an order!”

He departed, satisfied with this solution. Behind him, Burman gloomed at the wall and licked his lips once, twice.