Hiller smiled inwardly at that choice gem of rationality because the crew's emotional perception made of it no more than a granule of gravel. They would have to be appealed to emotionally; under the pressure, they understood nothing else. The stir of resentment evoked by Eastburn's words was dying down. Bleck had started to say something, but Hiller's voice drowned him easily with its overpowering bass. "Then, let's put it this way. Suppose I decide to hold course and you--ah, let's say--'persuade' me to circle back. When we all testify at the hearing, I hope you don't expect me to protect you. I'll tell them exactly what was behind the mutiny, your yellow vertebrae, and what would that do to your reputations?" Hiller had to shout the last words, because Bleck was screaming interruptions. "It's your word against ours!" yelled Bleck into Hiller's sudden silence. "It's your word against ours that you didn't crack and blame it on us!" The commander lifted his eyebrows. What perfect projection! "I guess somebody in a spot like this could crack, couldn't he?" Hiller purposely addressed the remark to Bleck's followers. Most of them were staring uncertainly at Bleck's perspiration-soaked shirt, his white face, the hunching shoulders, and moving wordless lips. "For the time being, let's leave it this way," said the commander authoritatively. "Unless conditions improve, we're turning back. If the odds seem later about even, we're going through. In the meantime, we'll make these preparations just in case we can chance the clusters." Possibly the instructions he gave sounded casual and spur-of-the-moment; actually, they were the careful product of his close figuring and planning, made during the last eight hours. It was more a recitation, yet he had to make it seem ad libbed. No one yet knew he had resolved on what data he had at present to hold the ship's Marsward course. * * * * * Even as he energized the lock mechanism on the door of his quarters, Fred Hiller began to tremble, a violent physical reaction of taut and unrested nerves. It had been capped by the crisis of the crew's resistance, a matter hardly settled, mainly delayed. He fell into his bunk and let the shakes take over. Right then they felt ghastly, but he realized he'd feel better when they stopped. As they subsided, he tried to keep the problem out of his mind. He was too tired for that; the pictures returned again and again in front of him mostly beyond his control. He stopped fighting them, and let the pictures progress. He justified the surrender with the thought he might learn something, might conceive a better protective device against the myriad missiles of the Belt. The same picture always started it--Lord, was it only a few hours ago?--when Dave, the ship's astronavigator, called him to the observation bubble....