Lee was busy marveling as they crossed the hotel lobby, brushing close to hastily drawn-back mink coats and formal clothes. It was certainly time for the bouncer to appear. But the hostess at the door of the Lotus Room--a blonde dream wearing something that resembled a pink cloud--gave the plump man a look Lee felt should have been reserved only for God. "Mr. Clifford! What table would you like?" Mr. Clifford smiled. "Good evening, my dear." He turned to Lee. "Mr. Hayden, this is Daphne--Mr. Lee Hayden, my dear." Her eyes turned obediently to Lee and he was sober enough to note the complete absence of revulsion; only pity in her friendly, open gaze. He thanked her silently and thought: _Even a bum like me still has a little pride and sensitivity left_. But a bum hides it behind grossness. Lee growled, "You got any decent liquor in this snob-joint?" Snob-joint! Not so long ago he felt entirely at home in such places. Not so long ago? Huh! A thousand years or so. Mr. Clifford said, "A quiet place, Daphne. Mr. Hayden and I want to talk." "Hell with that noise. We wanna drink." As they crossed the room, a man in formal clothes, obviously the manager, stepped aside and bowed deferentially to Mr. Clifford. The latter nodded pleasantly and eased Lee into a chair at a snowy table. The waiter was there instantly. Lee remained silent while Mr. Clifford ordered scotch. Then he could hold it in no longer. "All right--what the hell is all this?" Mr. Clifford smiled easily. "You need a drink. Here we are." "But why here--in this plush joint?" "Why not. It's open for business. Would you prefer a reeking skid row dive?" From anyone but Mr. Clifford, Lee thought, that would have been an insult. "I'd be more at home there," he mumbled. "The greatest spacial flight theorist who ever lived? I think not." Clifford's voice was a trifle sharp and the _something_ stood out again, holding back Lee's retort. At that moment the waiter arrived. He poured the drinks and Mr. Clifford motioned. The waiter set the bottle on the table and left. Lee knocked off his drink. His belligerence returned. "If you're doing this for laughs, that's okay. I've got it coming. If you want an autograph--no soap. I couldn't hold a pencil." Mr. Clifford picked up the bottle and poured a second drink for Lee. He had not touched his own. "So you failed," he said, pensively. "Yes, I failed." "So have others." Lee sneered. "You can pass it off with such beautiful casualness. Do you realize eleven men were killed on that ship?" "I know. And it seems to me they faced their destiny with a lot more courage than you are facing yours." "If I have to take a lecture with your liquor, I'd rather--" "Certainly not. Have another." Mr. Clifford poured and Lee had the grace to feel ashamed. "Look--I'm done--washed up--I'm at the bottom. Why should you--?" "On the bottom, yes. But sometimes people have to hit the bottom in order to ascend to the top."