"You know there isn't," said his superior. "It'd take days to do that job. Even if it worked against the Raddies, it'd take weeks more to get out uranium. And Hurriman's bunch won't wait weeks." He looked at the sick face of the younger man, then opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of Scotch and glasses. "Here, have a drink," he ordered. "You're a little young yet, and you take these things too seriously." Norris unhappily drank the Scotch. But his nerves, still shaken by that queer kick-back shock from the beam, didn't relax much. "Mart, your calmness isn't fooling me," he said. "I know how much the Proxies meant to you, the dreams you had of operating Proxies on every planet man couldn't visit, even on worlds of distant stars." Kincaid shrugged as he poured himself a drink. "Sure, I wanted all that. But since when have scientists ever been able to buck politicians?" Darkness pressed the windows as night gathered. They sat silently in the darkening office drinking the Scotch and looking at the tall, lighted stacks of the distant New York Power Station. Doug Norris found no comfort in the liquor's sting. His sense of injustice deepened. The Proxies were Kincaid's, but just because he couldn't produce uranium fast enough, they would be taken away from him. He said so, bitterly and at length. Kincaid only shrugged wearily again. "Forget it, Doug. Have another drink." Norris discovered with mild surprise that the bottle was empty. "We must have spilled some of it," he said a little thickly. "There's another bottle in the drawer," Kincaid grunted. "They were for the Project party next week, but that's all off now." * * * * * Norris opened the other bottle and generously refilled their glasses. He sat down beside Kincaid, who was looking broodingly from the window at the distant atomic power plant. Despite the warm physical glow he felt, Doug Norris was unhappier than before. A new, poignant sorrow had risen in him. "You know, Mart, it isn't only what Hurriman's doing to the Project that's got me down," he said sorrowfully. "It's what happened to old M-Fifty today." "M-Fifty?" Kincaid inquired. "You mean that Proxy you lost this afternoon?" "Yes, he was my special Proxy for all these months," Doug Norris said. "I got to know him. He was always dependable, never jumped his control beam, never acted cranky in a tight place." His voice choked a little. "I loved that Proxy like a brother. And I let him down. I let those Raddies wreck him." "They'll fix him up, Doug," said Kincaid, a rich sympathy in his slightly thickened voice. "They'll make him as good as new when they get him back up to Base." "Yes, but what good will that do if I'm not here to operate him?" cried Norris. "I tell you, that Proxy was sensitive. He knew my touch on the controls. That Proxy would have died for me." "Sure he would." Kincaid nodded with owlish understanding. "Here, have another drink, Doug."