throw out. They got
no brains."

Wyatt lay back, letting the liquor take hold, receding without pain
into a quiet world. The ship was good to feel around him, dark and
throbbing like a living womb. _Just like a womb_, he thought. _It's a
lot like a womb._

"Listen," Coop said thickly, rising from his chair. "I think I'll quit
this racket. What the hell I wanna stay in this racket for?"

Wyatt looked up, startled. When Coop was drunk, he was never a little
drunk. He was always far gone, and he could be very mean. Wyatt saw
now that he was down deep and sinking; that the replacement was a big
thing to him, bigger than Wyatt had expected. In this team, Wyatt had
been the leader, and it had seldom occurred to him that Coop really
needed him. He had never really thought about it. But now he let
himself realize that, alone, Coop could be very bad. Unless this new
man was worth anything and learned quickly, Coop would very likely get
himself killed.

Now, more than ever, this replacement thing was ridiculous; but for
Coop's sake, Wyatt said quickly:

"Drop that, man. You'll be on this ship in the boneyard. You even look
like this ship--you got a bright red bow."

When the tall man was dark and silent, Wyatt said gently, "Coop. Easy.
We leave at midnight. Want me to take her up?"

"Naw." Coop turned away abruptly, shaking his head. "T'hell with you.
Go die." He sank back deeply in the seat, his gaunt face reflecting
the green glow from the panel. His next words were sad, and, to Wyatt,
very touching.

"Hell, Billy," Coop said wearily, "this ain' no fun."

Wyatt let him take the ship up alone. There was no reason to argue
about it. Coop was drunk; his mind was unreachable.

At midnight, the ship bucked and heaved and leaped up into the sky.
Wyatt hung tenuously to a stanchion by a port, watched the night
lights recede and the stars begin blooming. In a few moments the last
clouds were past, and they were out in the long night, and the million
million speckled points of glittering blue and red and silver burned
once more with the mighty light which was, to Wyatt, all that was real
or had ever meant living. In the great glare and the black he stood,
as always, waiting for something to happen, for the huge lonely beauty
to resolve itself to a pattern and descend and be understood.

It did not. It was just space, an area in which things existed, in
which mechanized substance moved. Wondering, waiting, Wyatt regarded