nding.

Sam said, "All right, I'll take it back."

She smiled condescendingly, like a mother does when a child admits a
wrongdoing.

Conditioned responses, Sam thought bitterly; that was the whole trouble.
This cravenness, this kowtowing before any idiot with a louder voice,
certainly wasn't in his genes. The trouble was in his conditioning,
started when he was an adolescent. Give somebody an inch and they'll
take two. Pretty soon they're walking all over you, and you've become so
used to it you don't complain.

He thought of his job, of the eternal fitting of two wires in place. He
was a cog and nothing more--a cog that could be replaced as swiftly, as
efficiently as any part of an assembly-line atomic engine could be
replaced. He looked up into the blank, smiling, self-satisfied face of
his wife. He thought of the stars beckoning overhead. The _stars_!

"No," he said suddenly, decisively. The word fell like a sledgehammer
blow in the stillness of the room.

Dorothy's vacuous smile faded, uncomprehending. "What?"

"No," Sam said, trying to keep his voice even. "I've changed my mind.
I'm keeping the engine whether you like it or not."

Dorothy's mouth hung open in surprise, and before she could recover
enough to launch a fresh tirade Sam Meecham had walked out, slamming the
door behind him. He paused in the cool evening and gazed upward. The
government had gone only to the Moon. Sam Meecham was going to the
stars!

The next day he was given the silent treatment. It had begun the night
before when he returned from his walk. Dorothy was in bed, awake and
sniffling over the cruelty inflicted upon her by an unthoughtful
husband, and when he came in she turned her back and wouldn't speak. Sam
didn't mind that; in fact, it was a welcome relief. But all night long
she sniffled into her pillow, trying to win him over.

Sam felt an odd mixture of sympathy and anger. "Oh, shut up," he said
finally, and stuck his head under the pillow.

In the morning the treatment continued, but it was not totally
silent--for Dorothy's air of hostility was now accompanied by low,
sometimes indistinct mumblings.

Suddenly Sam said, "This coffee's cold."

"If you don't like it," Dorothy said, and thrust her face near his,
"make some yourself."

Sam half-rose and gripped the table. "Look, my lovely one, _I'm_ the
gent who brings home that weekly paycheck you can't get along without.
Measly or not, it's good, honest American dough t