“Damnedest industrial hazards popping up these days,” the third one said. “Used to be in our line all you worried about was catching malaria or getting too much roentgen. Now you sign a release about asthma and psychosomatic hypertension before they’ll hire you.” “Well, that’s really my job here,” Phil said. “I’m the chief headshrinker in charge of eustachian tubes. The day-night thing makes trouble, but nothing like what that inner ear of yours will try to do. Not to mention all the things your involuntary reflex system has to learn all over, and--” “You know, I never thought of just how _many_ things low gravity and rhythm disruption could do to a man!” Biochem No. 1 broke in, “Man, _that_ could be fascinating!” _Well, all right._ Phil started to feel better. At least one out of three was not Cool Cat straight to the core. The lad had spoken out of turn, and out of character. Phil made a mental approving note and fixed the still-nameless face in his mind. Then he stood up. “I’m going to have to run out on you for a while,” he apologized. “Boss-man has super-visitors upstairs.” No. 1 grinned; the others looked politely baffled. _Carrera_--that was his name. “Scuttlebutt around St. Thom wasn’t so far off, I guess,” No. 2 said to No. 3. “Everyone was saying _Johnny Wendt_ would be on board,” No. 3 explained. “Who is it anyhow? Or do we get Classified Personnel up here?” _Johnny Wendt._ In emphasis. Even from this jerk.... “Everyone was right,” Phil said flatly. “He’s up with Dr. Christensen now.” “Oh?” “Dammit!” said No. 2. “I _know_ I’d have recognized him. I’ll swear he wasn’t on the Messenger.” Phil shrugged. “Maybe they have private luxury compartments?” he said with a suggestion of a leer. “He brought Lisa Trovi with him.” And turned and went, knowing he had penetrated the professional boredom of No.’s 1 and 2. _Johnny Wendt!_ Maybe the boys back at the table were more jazzed up about Lee being there--but they didn’t say her name in caps or italics. Well, he thought, it was nice to know you weren’t the _only_ sucker in town. And Christensen’s bulldoggish efforts for the first time to get Wendt’s name back on the rolls made full _objective_ sense to Phil. He tossed a mental apology at Chris. Amendment, rather. He’d actually begun to think the director _cared_ about Wendt. Or maybe he did; it wouldn’t matter, _if_ he did. He didn’t care enough about _himself_ to make a centimeter’s difference if the blueprint was the plan for space. Whether he cared or not, he _needed_ Wendt. Phil started up the stairs to see the immovable object visiting the irresistible force. Plus, of course, Lisa. _Dollars Dome--8_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)