His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. "Let's leave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to the point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been increasingly hard to come by--even though in _our_ minds, Hans, we are near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space Exploration." "So...." Girard-Perregaux said gently. "So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!" "Now we are getting to matters." Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement. Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. "And do not the ends justify the means?" Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. "The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever read of the sailor and his way of life?" "Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to do with it?" "You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points, tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at sea--and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out for years at a stretch before returning to home port--he would talk of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in jail. So back to sea he'd have to go." Gubelin grunted bitterly. "Unfortunately, our present-day sailor can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again." He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his universal credit card. "The ultimate means of exchange," he grunted. "Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it, nobody can, ah, _con_ you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?"