He was in the tank-room, alone, for hours, it seemed. It was almost time for supper when there was a knock on the door, and when he hesitatingly opened it, Gilligan came in with a big smile on his face. "Well, it's all over but the shoutin', Manool," he boasted. "We've got Tarrant and Navigator Rogers cooped up in the dining room. They've got food and water, and they've locked themselves in, but we got a guard posted at the door, and we'll get 'em if they make a break. We got Doc Slade, too--alive. He fought like a tiger, hurt two of the boys before we nailed him, but we took him, alive, and we're holding him, up in the weighin' room. Cookie's stirred up some supper, so come on up and eat. You needn't be afraid," he added as an afterthought. "The fighting's all over." Manool followed him out of the door and down the passageway. They went up the stairs to the loading room near the central axis of the rocket; Manool feeling again the dizziness that he always felt when he lost weight. He had never really become a spaceman, in spite of all his years in space. He walked a little uncertainly and giddily into the room, a pace or two behind Gilligan. The entire crew was there. Doc Slade was there, too. He had a black eye and a long, deep scratch down one side of his face. His hands were tied, and he was seated on a stool with his legs tied to the stool's. Doc's eyes widened when he saw Manool walk in with Gilligan; then a look of scorn came into them and he turned his head away. Manool squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze--he liked Doc Slade, and Doc had always liked him, up to now. He hoped these fellows wouldn't hurt the old Doc. The table was set and the crew were about to sit down to eat. Manool was seated beside Gilligan, and they untied Doc's hands and sat him down, too, at the opposite end of the table. The meal was sheer torture to the little farmer. The crew ignored him, Gilligan ignored him, and Doc Slade--Doc wouldn't ignore him, and Manool wished he would. Before the meal was over, Manool was in an agony of anxiety. He wondered what would become of Tarrant and Rogers; he wondered what they'd do to Doc Slade; he wondered also what they were going to do to _him_. The crew was uproariously jovial. They had broken out a case of gin that one of them had probably smuggled aboard, and they lit cigarettes and split a bottle and were having a glorious time. It grew more glorious after the third bottle, and one of them brought up the suggestion that they divide the cargo among them right then, to "see what they were going to get." Gilligan frowned and tried to wave the suggestion down, but a half dozen voices snarled angrily at his refusal, and the slim mate was forced to acquiesce with as good grace as possible. A loader was delegated to guard Doc Slade, then the entire remainder of the crew started aft to the "hold."