“I’m sorry, sir,” said Harrison.

Sorry? You louse! whispered something deep within his own mind.

Why should you be sorry? He’s only a pompous fat man who couldn’t kill an ob if he tried. He’s no better than you. Those raw boys prancing around on Hygeia would maintain that he’s not as good as you because he’s got a pot belly. Yet you keep looking at his pot belly and saying, “Sir,” and, “I’m sorry.” If he tried to ride your bike, he’d fall off before he’d gone ten yards. Go spit in his eye and say, “I won’t.” You’re not scared, are you?

“No!” announced Harrison, loudly and firmly.

Captain Grayder glanced up. ‘If you’re going to start answering questions before they’ve been asked, you’d better see the medic. Or have we a telepath on board?”

“I was thinking,” Harrison explained.

“I approve of that,” put in His Excellency. He lugged a couple of huge tomes out of the wall-shelves, began to thumb rapidly through them. “Do plenty of thinking whenever you’ve the chance and it will become a habit. It will get easier and easier as time rolls on. In fact, a day may come when it can be done without pain.”

He shoved the books back, pulled out two more, spoke to Major Hame who happened to be at his elbow. “Don’t pose there glassyeyed like a relic propped up in a military museum. Give me a hand with this mountain of knowledge. I want Gandhi, anywhere from three hundred to a thousand Earth-years ago.”

Hame came to life, started dragging out books. So did Colonel Shelton. Captain Grayder remained at his desk and continued to mourn the missing.

“Ah, here it is, four-seventy years back.” His Excellency ran a plump finger along the printed lines. “Gandhi, sometimes called Bapu, or Father, Citizen of Hindi. Politico-philosopher. Opposed authority by means of an ingenious system called civil disobedience. Last remnants disappeared with the Great Explosion, but may still persist on some planet out of contact.”

“Evidently it does,” commented Grayder, his voice dry.

“Civil disobedience,” repeated the ambassador, screwing up his eyes. He had the air of one trying to study something which was topsy-turvy. “They can’t make that a social basis. It just won’t work.”

“It does work,” asserted Harrison, forgetting to put in the “sir.”

“Are you contradicting me, mister?”

“I’m stating a fact.”

“Your excellency,” Grayder began, “I suggest—”

“Leave this to me.” His color deepening, the ambassador waved him off. His gaze remained angrily on Harrison. “You’re very far from being an expert on socio-economic problems. Get that into your head, mister. Anyone of your caliber can be fooled by superficial appearances.”

“It works,” persisted Harrison, wondering where his own stubbornness was coming from.

“So does your tomfool bicycle. You’ve a bicycle mentality.”

Something snapped, and a voice remarkably like his own said, “Nuts!” Astounded by this phenomenon, Harrison waggled his ears.

“What was that, mister?”

“Nuts!” he repeated, feeling that what has been done can’t be undone.

Beating the purpling ambassador to the draw, Captain Grayder stood up and exercised his own authority.

“Regardless of further leave-quotas, if any, you are confined to the ship until further notice. Now get out!”

He went out, his mind in a whirl but his soul strangely satisfied. Outside, First Mate Morgan glowered at him.

“How long d’you think it’s going to take me to work through this list of names when guys like you squat in there for a week?” He grunted with ire, cupped hands round his mouth and bellowed, “Hope! Hope!”

No reply.

“Hope’s been abandoned,” remarked a wit.

“That’s funny,” sneered Morgan. “Look at me shaking all over.” He cupped again, tried the next name. “Hyland! Hyland!”

No response.

Four more days, long, tedious, dragging ones. That made nine in all since the battleship formed the rut in which it was still sitting.

There was trouble on board. The third and fourth leave-quotas, put off repeatedly, were becoming impatient, irritable.

“Morgan showed him the third roster again this morning. Same result. Grayder admitted this world can’t be defined as hostile and that we’re entitled to run free.”

“Well, why the heck doesn’t he keep to the book? The Space Commission could crucify him for disregarding it.”

“Same excuse. He says he’s not denying leave, he’s merely postponing it. That’s a crafty evasion, isn’t it? He says he’ll grant it immediately the missing men come back.”

“That might be never. Darn him, he’s using them as an excuse to gyp me out of my time.”

It was a strong and legitimate complaint. Weeks, months, years of close confinement in a constantly trembling bottle, no matter how large, demands ultimate release if only for a comparatively brief period. Men need fresh air, the good earth, the broad, clear-cut horizon, bulk-food, femininity, new faces.

“He would ram home the stopper just when we’ve learned the best way to get around. Civilian clothes and act like Gands, that’s the secret. Even the first-quota boys are ready for another try.”

“Grayder daren’t risk it. He’s lost too many already. One more quota cut in half and he won’t have enough crew to take off and get back. We’d be stuck here for keeps. How’d you like that?”

“I wouldn’t grieve.”

“He could train the bureaucrats. Time those guys did some honest work.”

“It’d take three years. That’s how long it took to train you, wasn’t it?”

Harrison came along holding a small envelope. Three of them picked on him at sight

“Look who sassed Hizonner and got confined to ship—same as us!”

“That’s what I like about it,” Harrison observed. “Better to get fastened down for something than for nothing.”

“It won’t be long, you’ll see! We’re not going to hang around bellyaching for ever. Mighty soon we’ll do something.”

“Such as what?”

“We’re thinking it over,” evaded the other, not liking to be taken up so fast. He noticed the envelope. “What have you got there? The day’s mail?”

“Exacdy that,” Harrison agreed.

“Have it your own way. I wasn’t being nosey. I thought maybe you’d got some more snafu. You engineers usually pick up that paperstuff first.”