inite sea of
emptiness which surrounds us to pursue our chosen profession, we don't
get killed on the first try. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Cheer up," said St. Simon. "Teaching isn't such a bad lot. And, after
all, you do get paid for it."

"And at a salary! A Pooh-Bah paid for his services! I a salaried minion!
But I do it! It revolts me, but I do it!"

The short, balding man behind the checker's desk looked up as the two
men approached. "Hello, captain," he said as St. Simon stepped up to the
desk.

"How are you, Mr. Murtaugh?" St. Simon said politely. He handed over his
log book. "There's the data on my last ten. I'll be staying here for a
few days, so there's no need to rush the refill requisition. Any calls
for me?"

The checker put the log book in the duplicator. "I'll see if there are,
captain." He went over to the autofile and punched St. Simon's serial
number.

Very few people write to an anchor man. Since he is free to check in and
reload at any of the major Belt Cities, and since, in his search for
asteroids, his erratic orbit is likely to take him anywhere, it might be
months or years before a written letter caught up with him. On the other
hand, a message could be beamed to every city, and he could pick it up
wherever he was. It cost money, but it was sure.

"One call," the checker said. He handed St. Simon a message slip.

It was unimportant. Just a note from a girl on Vesta. He promised
himself that he'd make his next break at Vesta, come what may. He stuck
the flimsy in his pocket, and waited while the checker went through the
routine of recording his log and making out a pay voucher.

There was no small talk between himself and the checker. Mr. Murtaugh
had not elected to take the schooling necessary to qualify for other
than a small desk job. He had no space experience. Unless and until he
did, there would be an invisible, but nonetheless real barrier between
himself and any spaceman. It was not that St. Simon looked down on the
man, exactly; it was simply that Murtaugh had not proved himself, and,
therefore, there was no way of knowing whether he could be trusted or
not. And since trust is a positive quality, lack of it can only mean
mistrust.

Murtaugh handed Captain St. Simon an envelope. "That's it, captain.
Thank you."

St. Simon opened the envelope, took out his check--and a blue ticket.

Kerry Brand broke into a guffaw.

* * * * *

When the phone on