"They tell me the _Gordak_ leaves on a ten-world junket tomorrow. All I ask is this: let me ship along as the zoology man. Then, if you're not satisfied, you can leave me at your first port-of-call--without pay." Carmical smiled triumphantly. "You know where we space out for first, Mr. Stedman? Mercury, that's where. I'd love to see a sassy young pup like you set loose on Mercury in one of the Twilight Cities." "Is it a deal?" "It sure is, Stedman. It sure is! But I warn you, we'll expect perfection. You'll not have a chance to profit from your own mistakes. You won't have a chance to make mistakes. One slip and you've had it, is that understood?" "Yes." "I'm not going, of course," Carmical said, patting his great paunch and saying with the action that he was too old and too fat for space. "But I'll hear all about the way you were stranded on Mercury, among a lot of Merkies and--" Steve smiled grimly, said: "No you won't. Next time you see me will be after the ten-world junket. Whom do I ask for on the _Gordak_?" Carmical dialed for a bromo, watched it fizz in the glass, drank it, belched. "T. J. Moore's in charge," he told Steve. "Old T. J.'s a mighty rough taskmaster, Stedman. Don't say you weren't warned." "Thanks." "Well, I'll hear about how you were stranded on Mercury," Carmical predicted. "You'll see me after the ten-world junket," said Steve, and closed the door softly behind him. * * * * * Pit-monkeys scurried about the great jet-slagged underside of the _Gordak_, spraying fresh zircalloy in the aft tubes. Spaceport officers were everywhere in their crisp white uniforms, checking cargo, giving terse directives to the crew of the _Gordak_, lounging importantly at the foot of the gangplank. "Name?" one of them snapped at Steve. "Stedman." The man flipped through a list of the expedition's members. "Stedman, huh? I don't see--oh, here it is, in pencil at the bottom. Last minute addition, huh, Stedman?" "Something like that," Steve admitted. "Well, climb aboard." And then Steve was walking up the gangplank and into the cool metal interior of the _Gordak_. His palms were clammy, and he wondered if any of the crewmen within the ship noticed the sweat beading his forehead. He'd managed to come this far with a surprising degree of objectivity, and only now did reaction set in, causing his heart to beat fiercely and his limbs to grow weak. _That T. J. Moore must have been spawned in hell_, Charlie had said--and now Charlie was dead. Because of T. J. Moore? Indirectly, perhaps, but T. J. Moore was responsible. Or, if you looked at it on a different level, the cut-throat competition between _Carmical Enterprises_ and _Barling Brothers Interplanetary_ was to blame. It didn't matter, not really. Charlie was dead. That alone mattered.