“Hmmph!” Ryan took another whiff of oxygen. “I hadn’t thought of the Earth-transport angle. But the bugs in this creation of mine are going to be a hell of a lot harder to work out. Earth-transport--why, it’s like using a diecaster to crack a nut.” Then, with a look of alarm, “Chief, you aren’t giving up on the space-travel dream, are you?” Hamilton shook his head. “You know better than that,” he said. “In fact--” He let it hang, adding quickly, “But forget about your invention being a flop. It’s potentially the most important single device any SPR man has ever come up with. I’m sorry we had to cut off your spree in mid-flight, but we couldn’t afford an international panic just now.” A brief, boyish smile lent charm to the inventor’s almost ugly face. He said wistfully, “I guess it would kick over a lot of applecarts at that. Hey, Park, where are you going?” “You may not have noticed,” said Hamilton drily, “but we’re coming in to land. Don’t you want to come forward and join the others? After all, you are the lion of this occasion.” * * * * * Ryan hesitated, then shook his head. “I might embarrass Harris,” he said, and winced at the accidental rhyme. “Impossible,” said Hamilton, rising. Then, recalling the Englishman’s blush in his office only that morning, “Well, have it your own way. Just remember you’re a hero, son.” “I’ll try, Father Hamilton,” said Ryan, patting his diaphragm and belching vigorously. “Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse--the hangover or its cure.” “You’re cured,” said Hamilton from the doorway. “See you at the base. Run these tests off and you’ll get all the liberty and girls you want--liquor, too.” “Don’t make me ill again,” said Ryan. “I’ve had it for another five years. I’m even looking forward to seeing the girls at the base again. Thanks, Park--for everything.” An hour later, they were seated at a luncheon table in the CANTSPR’s private dining room, where Jack Witherspoon and his aides had whipped together a remarkable short-notice meal of foods raised or grown on the SPR Breeding and Agricultural Station. There was a delicious plankton-and-shark-fin soup, followed by filets of musk-oxen that had been so treated by SPR husbandry and food experts that it rivaled the finest Argentine beef. These were accompanied by an astonishing array of locally-grown fruits and vegetables, some out of doors, some under artificial lights, and all of them hydroponically. When dessert was served Witherspoon--a lean, nut-brown man with a high, near-bald forehead--remarked, “One thing we never have to worry about here is the sherbet. We always have plenty of ice.” The sally brought a chuckle, but it was of short duration. Forsythe and Ian Harris were still locked in their marathon argument as to the rights of the individual nation, and the individual citizen balanced against the stern edicts of a world control.