Ramos poured the coffee in the thin magnesium cups that each of the Bunch had brought. Their squeeze bottles, for zero-G drinking, were not necessary, here. Their skimpy portions of stew were spooned on magnesium plates. Knife and fork combinations were brought out. An apple purée which had been powder, followed the stew. Brunch was soon over. "That's all for now, folks," Ramos said ruefully. Tiflin snaked a cigarette out from inside the collar of his Archer. "Hey!" Reynolds said mildly. "Oxygen, remember? Shouldn't you ask our host, first?" Ramos had eased up on ribbing Tiflin months ago. "It's okay," he said. "The air-restorers are new." But Tiflin's explosive nerves, under strain for a long time, didn't take it. He threw down the unlighted fag. He snicked his switch blade from a thigh pocket. For an instant it seemed that he would attack Reynolds. Then the knife flew, and penetrated the thin, taut wall, to its handle. There was a frightening hiss, until the sealing gum between the double layers, cut off the leak. The Kuzaks had Tiflin helpless and snarling, at once. "Get a patch, somebody--fix up the hole," Joe, the mild one, growled. "Tiflin--me and my brother helped you. Now we're gonna sit on you--just to make sure your funny business doesn't kill us all. Try anything just _once_, and we'll feed you all that vacuum--without an Archer. If you're a good boy, maybe you'll live to get dumped on the Moon as we pass by." "Nuts--let's give this sick rat to the Space Force right now." Art Kuzak hissed. "Here comes their patrol bubb." The glinting, transparent ring with the barred white star was passing at a distance. "All is well with you novices?" The enquiring voice was a gruff drawl, mingled with crunching sounds of eating--perhaps a candy bar. "No!" Tiflin whispered, pleading. "I'll watch myself!" The United Nations patrol was out, too, farther off. Another, darker bubb, with other markings, passed by, quite close. It had foreign lines, more than a bit sinister to the Bunch's first, startled view. It was a Tovie vehicle, representing the other side of the still--for the most part--passively opposed forces, on Earth, and far beyond. But through the darkened transparency of stellene, the armored figures--again somewhat sinister--only raised their hands in greeting. In a minute, Frank Nelsen emerged from Ramos' ring. Floating free, he stabilized himself, fussed with the radio antenna of his helmet-phone for a moment, making its transmission and reception directional. On the misty, shrinking Earth, North America was visible. "Frank Nelsen to Paul Hendricks," he said. "Frank Nelsen to Paul Hendricks..." Paul was waiting, all right. "Hello, Frankie. Some of the guys talked already--said you were asleep."