ion of personal
rights and freedom, the hamstringing of his work, the feeling of being
cut off from the main currents of his field, filled him with despair,
anger, and frustration.

* * * * *

Suddenly he raised his head, slammed the notebook shut and switched off
the desk lamp. Not tonight. Tomorrow would be time enough to write out
this stuff. He needed a drink.

The hall was dark as he locked the door to his lab except at the far end
near the stairway where a patch of yellow light shone through an open
doorway. Mason, he thought, Allan Mason, the one guy at Fair Oaks
Nuclear Energy Laboratories who was always so damnedly cheerful, who
didn't seem to mind the security restrictions, and who was seen so often
with Gordon. As he walked rapidly past the open doorway, he caught a
flashing impression from the corner of his eye of Mason's tall figure
bent over his bench, his long legs wrapped around a lab stool, the
perpetual unlit pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. Then as he
swung quickly toward the stairs, he heard Mason's cheerful hail.

"Hi, Milt, hold up a sec."

Reluctantly he paused at the head of the stairs scowling momentarily,
and then slowly turning and retraced his steps.

The lab was brightly lighted, and Mason stretched and smiled pleasantly.

"Come in, old man, I'm about ready to knock off for the evening. How
goes it?"

Collins mumbled an O.K. trying to keep the irritation out of his voice,
and Mason went on.

"Just finishing up some loose ends so I can get off to the Society
meeting on Monday. You going?"

Shaking his head Collins felt his dislike for this man growing. The
annual meeting of the North American Society of Theoretical Physicists.
He didn't even give it any thought any more. Maybe he could go, but it
didn't seem worth the effort. In the past he had tried to go to the
meetings, but somehow work, rush work, some change of emphasis had come
up on the project, and he had had to cancel his plans. He'd finally
given up, but with Mason these things seemed to come easily, and he
wondered why--

"That's too bad"--his voice droned pleasantly on, and Collins' eye
caught several botany texts in the book rack above Mason's desk. So, he
had time to read stuff outside of his field. His work was going well.
He had time for meetings and was allowed to go to them--the anger rose
slowly like a swelling bubble from the hard core of his stomach. Then he