man fumbles to-day, it's the polar
penal colony for him!" The Sun-loving old Martian shivered.

"And here's another bright idea. Only one man's to be allowed in the
plant after the circuits are all tested! How'n the name of Pluto will
he handle things if a fuse blows? But what do they care about that!
We're technies! We're supposed to know everything, and never have
anything go wrong!"

"But why only one man?" cried Scarba, one of the associate engineers.
"It's asking too much! I'll not take it on, far as I'm concerned. My
resignation will be ready soon's I can get a blank!"

"I too! I'm with you, Scarba!" "We work like dogs to get everything in
first-line condition, and then--" The hard-working and uncomplaining
technies were outspoken in their resentment.

"Oh, I see your point," Stimson agreed. "I could stand Balta, but
Wilcox is just one too many for me. But do you boys think for one
minute we could get away with a strike?" He laughed angrily. "I can
remember when the technies were able to demand their guild rights. But
you boys weren't even born then. Now, let's get this straight:

"We are going to do just as we are told. Wilcox, of course, never
explains an order, but the reason for having only one operator on the
job is simply to concentrate responsibility on that one man. There
will be no excuse if he fails. Before the convention starts, and after
it is over, there will be a message to send out. The convention itself
will be secret, as usual. During the convention, there will be some
kind of filler stuff from the central office."

"Yeh!" snorted one of the men. "That's the dope, all right. One of us
is stuck, but if it's me I'll walk out and head for the desert."

* * * * *

Stimson looked at him with a sardonic smile. "I forgot to mention: the
doors will be locked and barred, and of course there's no such thing
as windows."

Wasil whistled. "They're sure careful. Well, Stimson. I haven't a
thing to do all day. I'll take it on."

They all looked at him, not sure that they had heard him right.

"What's the matter, sonny?" Stimson said slowly. "Too much Merclite
last night? You're shaking!"

"It's an opening!" Wasil insisted.

"An opening to tramp ice at the pole for the rest of your life!"

"All right. I'll chance it!"

They consented, without very much argument, to let Wasil have the
dangerous responsibility. At 2:30, two and a half hours after sunrise
by the Ma