_If you're interested in a piece of this, you can always reach me at ..._ He was about to call it a day at five-thirty, when he got a visiphone call from John Andrusco. When he walked into the immense office at the other end of the floor, he saw a glassy-eyed man standing at Andrusco's desk, twirling his hat with nervous fingers. "Tom," Andrusco said cheerfully, "want you to meet somebody. This is Sergeant Walt Spencer, formerly of the UN Space Commission." Tom shook the man's hand, and he could feel it trembling in his own. "I called Walt in here specially, thanks to that memo you sent me, Tom. Great idea of yours, about talking to some of the boys who've actually been in space. Walter here's willing to cooperate a hundred percent." "That's fine," Tom said uneasily. "Thought you two ought to get together," Andrusco said, reaching for his hat. "Think he can help a lot, Tom. Talk it over." "Well--suppose we have a drink, Sergeant? That fit your plans all right?" "Suits me," the man said, without emotion. They went down in the elevator together, and slid into a red-leather booth in the Tuscany Bar in the base of the building. The sergeant ordered a double Scotch, and gulped it with the same respect you give water. "So you've been in space," Tom said, looking at him curiously. "Must have been quite an experience." "Yeah." "Er--I take it you've left the service." "Yeah." Tom frowned, and sipped his martini. "How many trips did you make, Sergeant?" "Just one. Reconnaissance Moon Flight Four. About six years ago. You must have read about it." "Yes," Tom said. "Sorry." The man shrugged. "Things happen. Even on Earth, things happen." "Tell me something." Tom leaned forward. "Is it true about--" He paused, embarrassed. "Well, you hear a lot of stories. But I understand some of the men on that flight, the ones who got back all right, had children. And--well, you know how rumors go--" "Lies," Spencer said, without rancor. "I've got two kids myself. Both of 'em normal." "Oh." Tom tried to hide his disappointment behind the cocktail glass. It would have made great copy, if he could have proved the truth of the old rumor about two-headed babies. But what _could_ Sergeant Spencer do for the PR program? Andrusco must have had something in mind. * * * * * He asked him point-blank. "It's like this," the man said, his eyes distant. "Since I quit the service, I haven't been doin' so good. With jobs, I mean. And Mr. Andrusco--he said he'd give me five thousand dollars if I'd--help you people." "Did Mr. Andrusco describe this help?" "Yeah. He wants me to do a story. About the kid my wife had. The first kid." "What about the first kid?" "Well, she died, the first kid did. In childbirth. It was something that happens, you know. My wife's a little woman; the baby was smothered." "I see. And what kind of story do you want to tell?"