why he lugs his whole family
along wherever he goes. Why else would he?"

"Maybe he loves her. It happens, you know."

"Huh?" Eddie snorted. "After twenty years of her? Comet-gas! Anyway,
would _you_ have the sublime gall to make passes at Warner Oil's
heiress, with more millions in her own sock than you've got dimes?"

"I don't make passes."

"That's right, you don't. Only at books and tapes, even on ground
leaves; more fool you. Well, then, would you _marry_ anybody like that?"

"Certainly, if I loved...." Deston paused, thought a moment, then went
on: "Maybe I wouldn't, either. She'd make me dress for dinner. She'd
probably have a live waiter; maybe even a butler. So I guess I wouldn't,
at that."

"You nor me neither, brother. But _what_ a dish! What a lovely,
luscious, toothsome _dish_!" Eddie mourned.

"You'll be raving about another one tomorrow," Deston said, unfeelingly,
as he turned away.

"I don't know; but even if I do, _she_ won't be anything like _her_,"
Eddie said, to the closing door.

And Deston, outside the door, grinned sardonically to himself. Before
his next watch, Eddie would bring up one of the prettiest girls aboard
for a gold badge; the token that would let her--under approved escort,
of course--go through the Top.

He himself never went down to the Middle, which was passenger territory.
There was nothing there he wanted. He was too busy, had too many
worthwhile things to do, to waste time that way ... but the hunch was
getting stronger and stronger all the time. For the first time in all
his three years of deep-space service he felt an overpowering urge to go
down into the very middle of the Middle; to the starship's main lounge.

He knew that his hunches were infallible. At cards, dice, or wheels he
had always had hunches and he had always won. That was why he had
stopped gambling, years before, before anybody found out. He was that
kind of a man.

Apart from the matter of unearned increment, however, he always followed
his hunches; but this one he did not like at all. He had been resisting
it for hours, because he had never visited the lounge and did not want
to visit it now. But _something_ down there was pulling like a tractor,
so he went. He didn't go to his cabin; didn't even take off his
side-arm. He didn't even think of it; the .41 automatic at his hip was
as much a part of his uniform as his pants.

Entering the lounge, he did not have to look around. She was playing
br