But now there was too much
interference from the rockets. The thrust pressed Marcus deep into the
flexible diaphragm. The announcer shouted, but the blood was roaring in
his ears.

Marcus felt himself sliding into the gray world of takeoff.

* * * * *

Then they were out among the stars and the sensation of great weight
rolled away. Marcus sat up.

"We didn't hear it," said Wilbur, swinging his legs.

"We didn't. But they announced it."

"I wish I'd heard," said Wilbur.

It was bothering Marcus, too. "The thing to do is to find out," he said.
They went into the corridor. The rockets were silent; the star drive had
taken over. The solar system was behind them, indistinguishable from the
other stars.

The pilot was busy and nodded his head, asking them to wait while he set
the controls. He flipped levers and after an interval turned around.
"Can I help you?" he asked.

"We didn't hear the schedule," said Marcus. "The rockets were too loud."

The pilot smiled apologetically. "You know how it is--last minute
corrections on the charts. We had to wait until new ones were delivered,
just before takeoff."

The oppression that had been hovering near lifted a little. "I
understand," said Marcus. "Would you tell me if Mezzerow was one of the
corrections?"

The pilot turned to the list and ran his finger down the line. He looked
and looked again. "No Mezzerow here," he said.

The oppression had never been far away. It came back. "No Mezzerow?"
said Marcus bleakly.

"No, but I'll check." The pilot bent over the list. "Wait. Maybe this is
why I didn't see it. Take a look."

Marcus looked where the pilot was pointing. Above the fingernail, in
bold black letters, was the name.

MISERY ROW (Formerly Mezzerow--changed to avoid confusion with
a family name.)

"Thanks," said Marcus faintly. "That's what I wanted to know."

They went to the cabin in silence. Marcus closed his eyes but that
didn't shut out the new name. Nothing could.

"That's not as nice as it was," said Wilbur. "What do you suppose was
wrong?"

"I don't know," said Marcus. But he did know. Fourteen times, or was it
eleven, he had used one word. He had tried to overload the master robot
with emotion and he had succeeded.

He had given it one outstanding impression: Misery.

"What'll we do?" said Wilbur. "Go back and change it?"

"No," said Marcus. "We'll leave it as it is. When you grow up and take
my