Instead, I heard myself saying, "All right, Resnick. You win." My voice was perfectly calm. It was not me. Whatever it was, it was not me, talking. My part of my mind was in a numb stupor, unable to act, unable even to think. I heard my voice say, "It's a deal. You promise to lay off. In return I promise to turn my salary for this trip over to you when we get paid, and to sign you on for the next trip." My voice was perfectly calm, even practical. I felt my lips curve into a calculated and bitter smile of defeat. I heard myself say, "Such an agreement can't be put into writing, of course, but--shall we drink on it?" I saw disappointment, disbelief, amazed surprise, cross his lean angular features as I rose from behind my desk. As though in a dream I turned my back on him as I crossed the office to the liquor cabinet, the prerogative of a space Captain. I opened it up with unshaking hands. He followed me, came to stand behind me, very close. I lifted out a bottle of Scotch, the seal still unbroken, and turned to him. "Scotch?" I asked. He hulked over me, his thin lips stretched into a gleeful grin. "Sure," he said softly, his lips pasted against his stained teeth. He sensed my sudden movement, a movement I was not conscious of dictating, but he was too slow as the full bottle crashed down on his skull, shattering and sending a shower of alcohol over his uniform and the floor. His eyes did not close, but blanked into unconsciousness as he sagged to the floor. I stood there for a moment, blinking down at his unconscious form, not quite believing what had happened. Even in unconsciousness he sent fear icing through my veins. In one mad moment I had ruined it all. When he recovered he would be unforgiving, without mercy. For a minute or two I broke down completely, crying like a baby. Then, gradually, a calm settled over me. I turned him over onto his back and pulled his slack arms together. I took off my belt and wrapped it around his wrists until I could fasten the buckle firmly. Then I went to my cubicle and brought back a roll of adhesive tape and taped his lips closed, laughing in a low, mad voice that was not my own. I used the rest of the roll of tape to fasten his ankles together. And just as I finished he opened his eyes. It took him a few minutes to organize his thoughts and fix his attention on me, his eyes questioning me. I continued to chuckle under my breath. I was mad, conscious of the fact that I was mad, and beyond caring. "You have nice eyes," I heard myself say. "Nice soft brown eyes." I examined his scalp with careful concern for a moment. "Good thing," I said. "The bottle broke, so there will be no sign of abrasion that could be proof of anything."