ply face stumbled near. Frank Nelsen choked down his fury at
the vandalism. He had a blurred urge to find a certain face, and almost
thought he succeeded. But everything, including his head, was a fuzzy
jumble.

"Hey!" the pimply guy gurgled. "Hey--Boss! Our benefactors--they're half
awake! You should shleep, baby greenhorns...!"

A large man with shovel teeth ambled over. Frank managed half to rise.
He met the blow and gave some of it back. Ramos was doing likewise,
gamely. Then Nelsen's head zeroed out again in a pyrotechnic burst...

He awoke to almost absolute silence, and to the turning of the whole
universe around him. But of course it was himself that was
rotating--boots over head. There was a bad smell of old sweat, and
worse.

His hip felt numb from the needle puncture. In all except the most vital
areas, those slim missiles would not usually cause death, or even
serious injury; but soon the wound would ache naggingly.

First, Frank Nelsen hardly knew where he was. Then he understood that he
was drifting free in space, in an armor. He thought it was his own until
he failed to recognize the scuffed, grimy interior. Even the workshirt
he was wearing wasn't the new blue one he had put on, it seemed only
hours ago. It was a greasy grey.

Etched into the scratched plastic of the helmet that covered his head,
he saw "Archer III--ser. no. 828211." And casually stuck into the
gasketted rim of the collar, was a note, pencilled jaggedly on a scrap
of paper:

"Honest, Greenie, your a pal. All that nice stuff. Thanks a 1,000,000!
Couple of my boys needed new Archies, bad. Thanks again. You and your
buddie are not having so bad a brake. These old threes been all over
hell. They will show you all about Asteroid hopping and mining. So will
the load-hauling net and tools. Thanks for the little dough, too. Find
your space fitness card in shirt pocket. We don't need it. Have lots of
fun. Just remember me as The Stinker."

Frank Nelsen was quivering with anger and scare. He saw that a mended
steel net, containing a few items, had got wrapped around him with his
turning. He groped for the ion-guide of the ancient shoulder-ionic, and
touched a control. Slowly his spin was checked. Meanwhile he untangled
himself, and saw what must be Ramos, adrift like himself in a battered
Archer Three, doing the same.

Gradually they managed to ion glide over to each other. Their eyes met.
They were the butts of a prank that no doubt ha