Coster buried his face in his hands, then looked up. "I know it. I know what needs to be done--but every time I try to tackle a technical problem some bloody fool wants me to make a decision about trucks--or telephones--or some damn thing. I'm sorry, Mr. Harriman. I thought I could do it."
Harriman said very gently, "Don't let it throw you, Bob. You haven't had much sleep lately, have you? Tell you what--we'll put over a fast one on Ferguson. I'll take that desk you're at for a few days and build you a set-up to protect you against such things. I want that brain of yours thinking about reaction vectors and fuel efficiencies and design stresses, not about contracts for trucks." Harriman stepped to the door, looked around the outer office and spotted a man who might or might not be the office's chief clerk. "Hey you! C'mere."
The man looked startled, got up, came to the door and said, "Yes?"
"I want that desk in the corner and all the stuff that's on it moved to an empty office on this floor, right away."
He supervised getting Coster and his other desk moved into another office, saw to it that the phone in the new office was disconnected, and, as an afterthought, had a couch moved in there, too. "We'll install a projector, and a drafting machine and bookcases and other junk like that tonight," he told Coster. "Just make a list of anything you need--to work on engineering." He went back to the nominal chief-engineer's office and got happily to work trying to figure where the organization stood and what was wrong with it.
Some four hours later he took Berkeley to meet Coster. The chief engineer was asleep at his desk, head cradled on his arms. Harriman started to back out, but Coster roused. "Oh! Sorry," he said, blushing, "I must have dozed off."
"That's why I brought you the couch," said Harriman. "It's more restful. Bob, meet Jock Berkeley. He's your new slave. You remain chief engineer and top, undisputed boss. Jock is Lord High Everything Else. From now on you've got absolutely nothing to worry about-except for the little detail of building a Moon ship."
They shook hands. "just one thing I ask, Mr. Coster," Berkeley said seriously, "bypass me all you want to--you'll have to run the technical show--but for God's sake record it so I'll know what's going on. I'm going to have a switch placed on your desk that will operate a sealed recorder at my desk."
"Fine!" Coster was looking, Harriman thought, younger already.
"And if you want something that is not technical, don't do it yourself. Just flip a switch and whistle; it'll get done!" Berkeley glanced at Harriman. "The Boss says he wants to talk with you about the real job. I'll leave you and get busy." He left.
Harriman sat down; Coster followed suit and said, "Whew!"
"I like the looks of that fellow Berkeley."
"That's good; he's your twin brother from now on. Stop worrying; I've used him before. You'll think you're living in a well-run hospital."