* * * * *

It was a mistake. Phil Riggs, our scrawny, half-pint meteorologist,
grinned nastily and reached for the plate. "'Smatter, Paul? Don't you
like your breakfast? It's good for you--whole wheat contains bran. The
staff of life. Man, after that diet of bleached paste...."

* * * * *

There's one guy like that in every bunch. The cook was mad at us for
griping about his coffee, so our group of scientists on this cockeyed
Saturn Expedition were getting whole wheat flour as punishment, while
Captain Muller probably sat in his cabin chuckling about it. In our
agreement, there was a clause that we could go over Muller's head on
such things with a unanimous petition--but Riggs had spiked that. The
idiot liked bran in his flour, even for pancakes!

Or else he was putting on a good act for the fun of watching the rest
of us suffer.

"You can take your damned whole wheat and stuff it--" I started. Then
I shrugged and dropped it. There were enough feuds going on aboard the
cranky old _Wahoo_! "Seen Jenny this morning, Phil?"

He studied me insolently. "She told Doc Napier she had some stuff
growing in hydroponics she wanted to look at. You're wasting your time
on that babe, boy!"

"Thanks for nothing," I muttered at him, and got out before I really
decided on murder. Jenny Sanderson was our expedition biologist. A
natural golden blonde, just chin-high on me, and cute enough to earn
her way through a Ph. D. doing modelling. She had a laugh that would
melt a brass statue and which she used too much on Doc Napier, on our
chief, and even on grumpy old Captain Muller--but sometimes she used
it on me, when she wanted something. And I never did have much use for
a girl who was the strong independent type where there was a man to do
the dirty work, so that was okay.

I suppose it was natural, with only two women among eighteen men for
month after month, but right then I probably liked Doc Napier less
than the captain, even. I pulled myself away from the corridor to
hydroponics, started for observation, and then went on into the
cubbyhole they gave me for a cabin. On the _Wahoo_, all a man could do
was sleep or sit around and think about murder.

Well, I had nobody to blame but myself. I'd asked for the job when I
first heard Dr. Pietro had collected funds and priorities for a trip
to study Saturn's rings at close hand. And because I'd done some
technical w