Videnski had grabbed Brentwood by the front of his union suit, and had lifted him off his feet and slammed his back up against the wall. His free hand was swinging back and forth in open-handed slaps that looked as though any one of them should have torn the smaller man's head off. Felder was ineffectually trying to pull Videnski away from Brentwood, but the big man didn't even seem to notice it. Vivian Devereaux was nowhere in sight. Videnski's harsh baritone was filled with invective that should have made the air as glowingly blue as the inside of an old-fashioned rectifier tube. I ran across the room, grabbed Videnski by the shoulder and said: "Stop that!" He stopped. When I throw out an emotional field like that, only a very exceptional man can disobey. "Let him go," I said. Videnski released him, and Brentwood slid down the wall, just this side of unconsciousness. "What's the idea?" I asked. "I ... I'm sorry," Videnski rumbled. "Lost my temper, I guess. That ... I mean, _he_--" He stopped, fumbling for words. "I know. I heard what you were saying. Sure it's his fault my voice sounds the way it does. Sure he's a spy and probably a saboteur. And if we die, he'll be morally guilty of manslaughter. _And_ suicide--remember _that_. "But slapping him around like that isn't going to do any of us any good, and we need all the thinking we can get if we intend to pull ourselves out of this mess. "So leave him alone, Videnski. Hear?" My whispery voice didn't sound very authoritative, but a crisp, firm, commanding baritone does not authority make, any more than iron bars a cage. "Yeah," he said apologetically. "I'm sorry, Oak. I sort of lost my head. It won't happen again." I knelt down and took a look at Brentwood. He wasn't actually damaged much, but his face was going to be swollen and bruised. Somehow, I couldn't feel very sorry for him. I got him to his feet. "Come on, Brentwood; let's go lie down for a while. You'll feel better." "Yeah," he mumbled through thickening lips. "Thanks." I got him into his bunk, closed the door on him, and came back to the lounge. "Anybody dream up any solutions in his sleep?" I asked. It was apparent that they hadn't. "Maybe Vivian has," Felder said. "She's still asleep." "Let's not bank on it," I said. "Oh, I did have one idea," Felder said dispiritedly. "Ted, here, and I were working on it when Brentwood came out. When it didn't pan out, well, that's when the fight started." "What was your idea?"