t he had:
it was difficult, gruelingly heavy labor, carried out under nasty
circumstances--it was never fun to spend any length of time doing manual
labor inside a spacesuit, because the sweat-swabbers and the
air-conditioners in the suit were generally always one step behind on
the job--but at least the work came to a definite end. Once all the meat
was packed, the job was done.

The same couldn't be said for the unfortunates who swabbed the floors,
scraped out the jets, realigned the drive mechanism, or did any other
tidying work. Their jobs were _never_ done; they always suffered from
the nagging thought that just a little more work might bring the
inspection rating up a decimal or two.

Every starship had to undergo a rigorous inspection whenever it touched
down on Earth. The _Valhalla_ probably wouldn't have any difficulties,
since it had been gone only nine years Earthtime. But ships making
longer voyages often had troubles with the inspectors. Procedure which
passed inspection on a ship bound out for Rigel or one of the other far
stars might have become a violation in the hundreds of years that would
have passed before its return.

Alan wondered if the _Valhalla_ would run into any inspection problems.
The schedule called for departure for Procyon in six days, and the ship
would as usual be carrying a party of colonists.

The schedule was pretty much of a sacred thing. But Alan had not
forgotten his brother Steve. If he only had a few days to get out there
and maybe find him----

Well, I'll see, he thought. He relaxed.

But relaxation was brief. A familiar high-pitched voice cut suddenly
into his consciousness. _Oh, oh_, he thought. _Here comes trouble._

"How come you've cut jets, spaceman?"

Alan opened one eye and stared balefully at the skinny figure of Judy
Collier. "I've finished my job, that's how come. And I've been trying to
get a little rest. Any objections?"

She held up her hands and looked around the big recreation room
nervously. "Okay, don't shoot. Where's that animal of yours?"

"Rat? Don't worry about him. He's in my cabin, chewing his
nibbling-stick. I can assure you it tastes a lot better to him than your
bony ankles." Alan yawned deliberately. "Now how about letting me rest?"

She looked wounded. "If you _want_ it that way. I just thought I'd tell
you about the doings in the Enclave when we land. There's been a change
in the regulations since the last time we were here. But you wo