Then he moved toward the center of the Shed. A whole level of scaffolding came apart and its separate elements were bundled together as he watched. Slings lowered the bundles down to waiting trucks which would carry them elsewhere. There were mixing trucks still pouring out their white paste for the lining of the rocket tubes, and their product went up and vanished into the gaping mouths of the giant wire-wound pipes. Presently Joe went into the maze of piers under the Space Platform itself. He came to the temporary stairs he had reason to remember. He nodded to the two guards there. "I want to take another look at that gadget we installed," he said. One of the guards said good-naturedly: "Major Holt said to pass you any time." He ascended and went along the curious corridor--it had handgrips on the walls so a man could pull himself along it when there was no weight--and went to the engine room. He heard voices. They were speaking a completely unintelligible language. He tensed. Then the Chief grinned at him amiably. He was in the engine room and with him were no fewer than eight men of his own coppery complexion. "Here's some friends of mine," he explained, and Joe shook hands with black-haired, dark-skinned men who were named Charley Spotted Dog and Sam Fatbelly and Luther Red Cow and other exotic things. The Chief said exuberantly, "Major Holt told the guards to let me pass in some Indian friends, so I took my gang on a guided tour of the Platform. None of 'em had ever been inside before. And----" "I heard you talking Indian," said Joe. "You're gonna hear some more," said the Chief. "We're the first war party of my tribe in longer'n my grandpa woulda thought respectable!" Joe found it difficult to restrain a smile. The Chief took him off to one side. "Fella," he said kindly, "it bothers you, this business, because it ain't organized. That's what this world needs, Joe. Everything figured out by slide rules an' such--it's civilized, but it ain't human! What everybody oughta be is a connoisseur of chaos, like me. Quit worryin' an' get outside and pick up that security guy the Major was gonna send to meet you!" He gave Joe an amiable shove and rejoined his fellow Mohawks, each of whom, Joe noticed suddenly, had somewhere on his person a twelve-inch Stillson wrench or a reasonable facsimile to serve as a substitute tomahawk. They grinned at him as he departed. At the bottom of the flight of narrow wooden steps there was a third security man. He greeted Joe. "Major Holt told me to pick you up," he observed. Joe walked to one side with him. Major Holt had promised to send a first-class man to meet Joe at this place, with orders to take instructions from Joe. Joe said curtly: "You're to snag as many Security men as you can, place them more or less out of sight under the Platform here, and tell them to turn off their walkie-talkies and wait. No matter what happens, they're to wait right here until they're needed, right here!"