Cleve stopped trying to make an impression on the desk and looked up.
“I won’t let that pipsqueak do it. I refuse!” “Yes sir,” said Vandermeer. Vandermeer was a fine lieutenant. He always said just the right thing.
“Exceptional stupidity requires foresight, .planning, and careful preparation to be properly effective. But this fellow. Himpel . . . Hurmal . . .” “Hinkel, sir.”
“Yes, this Hinkel’s talent for improvising really remarkable idiocy on the spur of the moment is astonishing. And I fear the Council may support it! Perhaps I shall simply join his sphere of insanity. It may be the only solution.” “Yes sir.” “What?”
“I… I mean, no sir.”
Cleve sighed and slumped in his genuine starfox, red and silver hand-rubbed mahogany swivel chair. “It’s not an unreasonable request, is it, Lieutenant? After all, this is the third expedition to Titan. It’s not as if anything really newsworthy were happening. We’re only here to set up a small life-support station for the next three expeditions. And for the miners. A few simple solidosemis, habitats, an oxy-conversion plant . . . stuff like that. Why bring along a big newscast crew with a caster as big as Hurkel?”
“Hinkel, sir. As I understand it, the ISA and Admiral Howard thought it would give us some excellent publicity, sir. What with the current furor over funding and all, a few dramatic location shots of exotic Titan and Saturn, added to Hinkel’s prestige, should produce ratings that—”
“Ratings!” Cleve roared, purpling. “I’m deathly sick of hearing about Hickey’s goddamn, God-awful, got-verstunken, gder… gef…1”