"Get your shirt and shoes on. We'll go the rounds and you can have your pick of the jobs. You look them all over tonight and make up your mind tomorrow which one you would like." Wyckoff sat up and Tim slung him the shirt from the back of the chair. He had to help him with the snaps on the shirt and the shoes, but in a few moments they were out in the corridor. "You shouldn't spend all this time on me, Mr. Daneshaw. You just pick out a job and I'll take it." "Spending time _is_ my job and you need a job you'll like. You know, Sam, emotional conflicts can wear a man to a frazzle twenty times faster than hard labor. And don't call me Mister. I'm Tim to everybody unless they want to bawl me out for something, and Captain only when they want me to bawl somebody else out." "All right, Tim. Let's go." Tim grasped Sam's arm and hit his long stride. He'd get more from him on the way. Emotional responses sure could knock hell out of a man. * * * * * Hell or something seemed knocked out with the insistent "Ting, ting-ting" of the rising chime in the captain's cabin at seven the next morning. First waking. Waking itself seemed a great exertion this time. Then the long, long pause of gentle thought, of mustering of energies before opening his eyes and making a physical move to rise. Tim Daneshaw's first thought was of sinking to sleep again, of overwhelming fatigue. The bunk was firmer than usual--seemed to thrust up against his body, and to thrust up again, wearyingly, like a wave. The association brought words.... ... Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and ceases Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. Full consciousness came like a blow. Death, dark death meant Wyckoff, of course; and Wyckoff would be coming this morning, or, if he didn't, he, Tim Daneshaw must go in search ... must fight ... poor Sam Wyckoff deserved work.... Tim felt his thought grow dizzy and the lift and lift under him gave way to a fall and fall. He opened his eyes. The room was steady. Only the feeling of falling a little, then stopping, then falling a little continued. Tim brought his eyes down to the desk top again and again, each time to see the glowing desk lamp, pencils, papers, opened book lie quiet, steady, without tremor. The motion must be in his dizzying head. The cabin beyond the desk was in shadow, but the shadow retreated and advanced in rhythm with the falling. By a tremendous effort, Tim raised his hand to the wall button and pushed. The hand fell back limp on the covers. _Why are we weighed upon with heaviness?_ His mind revolved dully, waiting for an answer, waiting for the steward, waiting and turning and almost dozing.