Earth's gravity gripped it like a giant hand and brought it plummeting down into a granite quarry in Wisconsin. It was a Sunday, and the explosion of the ship's reactors didn't kill anyone but the two pilots. There was a routine investigation, but the evidence, as usual, was spread across too many states to make it productive. But when the _Marjorie_, a space freighter, got herself in trouble, the pilot managed to reach the Earth Communication Center before he disappeared forever into the Mediterranean. The voice cried out something like "Ox on the bum!" Then the _Pinafore_ registered an S.O.S. This time an accident was avoided. A tug was dispatched to the site in a hurry, and the pilots were transferred. The captain of the tug submitted his log to the Space Commerce board, and the most pertinent page read: "_Pinafore's_ oxygen tanks (mfr. Oxco, Serial #2853) were defective, and were seriously endangering life aboard." * * * * * Diana Huber tilted the decanter and held it over the glass a little too long for her husband's liking. "Easy, easy," he cried from his chair. "How much of that stuff do you think I can take?" "This one's mine," she said, starting to pour another. Huber shifted in his seat. "Aren't you overdoing it, honey?" he asked uneasily. "I mean, do you really think you should drink so much?" "It kills time," she said. "It makes the hours a little shorter. What else have I got to do? You've got your job. What have I got?" "Well, I only meant--I mean, if the kids--" "The kids are pasted to the screen," she replied, meaning that they were at the TV set. She flopped on the overstuffed sofa and yanked her skirt almost up to her thighs. She still had lovely legs, Huber thought, but she used them like an old frump. And she wasn't even fifty--just forty-seven. Why did she have to flop around that way? "Well, let's have it," she said, twirling the amber fluid in her glass. "My Hard Day at the Office. By George Huber, Age Eleven." He looked up, almost shyly. "Oh, nothing new," he said in a low voice. "Same old stuff." Diana swallowed half her Scotch. She gave a little cough, blinked, and said harshly: "You know that's not so. Something's up. Some kind of labor trouble. And your tanks are blowing out all over space. Is that the 'same old stuff,' George, dear?" Huber put down his paper. "It's the men!" he said. "They've gone nuts or something! Mopin' around all day, singin' the blues, snapping your head off if you make one little suggestion--" Diana closed her eyes. "I'm listening. Go on."