On the way out of the lounge, she stroked his arm with frank admiration. "I'm so glad you were agreeable. Honestly, Harold could talk rockets till I died." Conrad bent and kissed her. "Angela, I'm sorry, but this isn't going to be what you think. I have a ship to take off in just a few minutes." She flared and dug into his arm now. "Oh, Conrad Manz! You ... you made me believe...." He laughed and grabbed her wrists. "Now, now. I'm neglecting you to _fly_ a rocket, not just to talk about them. I won't let you die." At that she could not suppress her husky musical laugh. "I found that out the last time you and I were together. Clara and I had a drink the other day at the Citizen's Club. I don't often use dirty language, but I told Clara she must be keeping you in a _straitjacket_ at home." Conrad frowned, wishing she hadn't brought up the subject. It worried him off and on that something was wrong with Clara, something even worse than that awful _dreaming_ business ten days ago. For several shifts now she had been cold, nor was it just a temporary lack of interest in himself, for she was also cold to the men of their acquaintance of whom she was usually quite fond. As for himself, he had had to depend on casual contacts such as Angela. Not that they weren't pleasant, but a man and wife were supposed to maintain a healthy love life between themselves, and it usually meant trouble with the Medicorps when this broke down. Angela glanced at him. "I didn't think Clara laughed well at my remark. Is something wrong between you?" "Oh, no," he declared hastily. "Clara is sometimes that way ... doesn't catch a joke right off." A page boy approached them where they stood in the rotunda and advised Conrad that his ship was ready. "Honestly, Angela, I'll make it up, I promise." "I know you will, darling. And at least I'm grateful you saved me from all those rocket jets in there." Angela raised her lips for a kiss and afterward, as she pushed him toward the door, her slightly vacant face smiled at him. * * * * * Out on the ramp, Conrad found another pilot ready to take off. They made two wagers--first to reach the racing course, and winner in a six-lap heat around the six-hundred-mile hexagonal course. They fired together and Conrad blasted his ship up on a thunderous column of flame that squeezed him into his seat. He was good at this and he knew he would win the lift to the course. On the course, though, if his opponent was any good at all, Conrad would probably lose because he enjoyed slamming the ship around the course in his wasteful, swashbuckling style much more than merely winning the heat. Conrad kept his drive on till the last possible second and then shot out his nose jets. The ship shuddered up through another hundred miles and came to a lolling halt near the starting buoys. The other pilot gasped when Conrad shouted at him over the intership, "The winner by all thirty heads!"