"To the best of my judgment, yes. This--condition--didn't begin until we got so far away from the spacer--in time or distance. I don't want it to get any worse. It's troublesome not to know black from white, but it would be a downright inconvenience not to know which way is up." "Not for an experienced spaceman," Quade griped. "I'm used to free-fall." But he turned back. "Just a minute," I said. "There was something strange up ahead. I want to see if short-range radar can get through our electrogravitational jamming here." I took a sighting. My helmet set projected the pattern on the cornea. Sweetness building up to a stab of pure salt--those were the blips. Beside me, there was a thin thread of violet. Quade had whistled. He was reading the map too. The slope fell away sharply in front of us, becoming a deep gorge. There was something broken and twisted at the bottom, something we had known for an instant as a streak of spice. "There's one free-fall," I said, "where you wouldn't live long enough to get used to it." He said nothing on the route back to the spacer. * * * * * "I know all about this sort of thing, Gav," First Officer Nagurski said expansively. He was rubbing the well-worn ears of our beagle mascot, Bruce. A heavy tail thudded on the steel deck from time to time. My finger could barely get in the chafing band of my regulation collar. I was hot and tired, fresh--in only the chronological sense--from a pressure suit. "What do you know all about, Nagurski? Dogs? Spacemen? Women? Transphasia?" "Yes," he answered casually. "But I had immediate reference to our current psychophysiological phenomenon." I collapsed into the swivel in front of the chart table. "First off, let's hear what you know about--never mind, make it dogs." "Take Bruce, for example, then--" "No, thanks. I was wondering why _you_ did." "I didn't." His dark, round face was bland. "Bruce picked me. Followed me home one night in Chicago Port. The dog or the man who picks his own master is the most content." "Bruce is content," I admitted. "He couldn't be any more content and still be alive. But I'm not sure that theory works out with men. We'd have anarchy if I tried to let these starbucks pick their own master." "_I_ had no trouble when I was a captain," Nagurski said. "Ease the reins on the men. Just offer them your advice, your guidance. They will soon see why the service selected you as captain; they will pick you themselves." "Did your crew voluntarily elect you as their leader?" "Of course they did, Gav. I'm an old hand at controlling crews." "Then why are you First Officer under me now?" He blinked, then decided to laugh. "I've been in space a good many years. I really wanted to relax a little bit more. Besides, the increase in hazard pay was actually more than my salary as a captain. I'm a notch nearer retirement too." "Tell me, did you always feel this way about letting the men select their own leader?"