Wilson held up his hand. “I’m not asking just to be an asshole,” he assured Abumwe. “I’m asking because if we’re all agreed that’s what has to happen, then no one will look at me like I’m nuts for offering a completely insane potential solution.”

“What solution?” Abumwe asked.

Wilson walked over and stood by Waverly and Tuffy. Tuffy lolled his tongue out at Wilson; Waverly looked up at him with deeply suspicious eyes.

“Badly-designed technology got us into this problem,” Wilson said, looking down at Tuffy and Waverly. “Maybe better-designed technology can get us out of it.”

*   *   *

“Here you go,” Schmidt said, handing Wilson the small wand with a plunger button on top and then motioning with his head to two nervous-looking Icheloe technicians. “Press the button, everything goes down. Press the button again, hopefully everything comes back up again.”

“Got it,” Wilson said. He watched as another Icheloe technician brought in Tuffy and placed him on a stainless steel table, a small work towel placed in the middle to keep the dog’s feet from getting too cold.

“The technicians also wanted me to tell you thank you for being willing to be the one to press the button,” Schmidt said.

“Of course,” Wilson said. “Ambassador Waverly already hates my guts. And if this doesn’t work, then better it’s someone on our side than one of the Icheloe.”

“Their thinking exactly,” Schmidt said.

“How is Ambassador Waverly, anyway?” Wilson asked. He hadn’t seen her for several hours.

“Abumwe is with her now,” Schmidt said. “I think the plan is to keep feeding her alcohol.”

“It’s not a bad plan,” Wilson said.

Schmidt looked at his friend. “How do you feel?”

“I feel fine, Hart,” Wilson said. “I’d like to get this over with, however.”

“Can I get you some juice or anything?” Schmidt asked.

“What you can do is help that technician with Tuffy,” Wilson said, nodding to the Icheloe tech holding the squirming dog. “He looks like he’s about to lose it.” Schmidt hurried over and took the dog from the tech, then settled it down on the table. The tech backed away quickly, obviously relieved to be rid of her burden. The other two techs also quietly excused themselves.

“You want me to go?” Schmidt asked, petting Tuffy to keep the dog still.

“No, I need you to help me,” Wilson said. “You might want to move your hands, though.”

“Oh, right,” Schmidt said, and moved a step away from the dog.

Tuffy moved to go after Schimdt, but Wilson said, “Tuffy!” and snapped his fingers at the same time, drawing the little dog’s attention to himself.

“Good dog,” Wilson said, to Tuffy, who gave him a happy doggie smile and wagged his fluffy little tail.