“Yes, sir,” Marconi said. There was tension in his voice and attitude. “Do you want me to stay, sir?” Haarland growled: “Good God, no. You can get out. Sit down, Ross.” Ross sat down. Marconi, carefully looking neither to right or left, went out and closed the door. Haarland stretched, scratched, and yawned. He said: “Ross, Marconi tells me you’re quite a fellow. Sincere, competent, a good man to give a tough job to. Namely, his.” “Junior-Fourth Trader?” Ross asked, bewildered. “A little more dramatic than that—but we’ll come to the details in a minute. I’m told you were ready to quit Oldham for a purser’s berth. That’s ethical. Would you consider it unethical to quit Oldham for Haarland?” “Yes—I think I would.” “Glad to hear it! What if the work had absolutely nothing to do with trading and never brings you into a competitive situation with Oldham?” “Well——” Ross scratched his jaw. “Well, I think that would be all right. But a Junior Fourth’s job, Mr. Haarland——” The floor bucked and surged under him. He gasped, “What was that?” “Blastoff, I imagine,” Haarland said calmly. “We’re taking off. Better lie down.” Ross flopped to the floor. It was no time to argue, not with the first-stage pumps thundering and the preheaters roaring their threat of an imminent four-G thrust. It came like thunder, slapping Ross against the floor plates as though he were glued to them. He felt every tiny wrinkle in every weld he lay on, and one arm had fallen across a film reel. He heaved, and succeeded in levering it off the reel. It thwacked to the floor as though sandbags were stacked meters-high atop it. Blackout came very soon. He awoke in free fall. He was orbiting aimlessly about the cubicle. Haarland was strapped to the cot, absorbed in manipulating the portable projector, trying to thread a free-floating film. Ross bumped against the old man; Haarland abstractedly shoved him off. He careened from a bulkhead and flailed for a grip. “Oh,” said Haarland, looking up. “Awake?” “Yes, awake!” Ross said bitterly. “What is all this? Where are we?” The old man said formally, “Please forgive my cavalier treatment of you. You must not blame your friend Marconi; he had no idea that I was planning an immediate blastoff with you. I had an assignment for him which he—he preferred not to accept. Not to mince words, Ross, he quit.” “Quit his job?”