is absurd situation?"

"What situation?" Prentiss asked.

"This stupid insistence upon confining me to manual labor. I'm the
single member on Ragnarok of the Athena Planning Board and surely you
can see that this bumbling confusion of these people"--Bemmon indicated
the hurrying, laboring men, women and children around them--"can be
transformed into efficient, organized effort only through proper
supervision. Yet my abilities along such lines are ignored and I've been
forced to work as a common laborer--a wood chopper!"

He flung the hatchet down viciously, into the rocks at his feet,
breathing heavily with resentment and challenge. "I demand the respect
to which I'm entitled."

"Look," Prentiss said.

He pointed to the group just then going past them. A sixteen-year-old
girl was bent almost double under the weight of the pole she was
carrying, her once pretty face flushed and sweating. Behind her two
twelve-year-old boys were dragging a still larger pole. Behind them
came several small children, each of them carrying as many of the
pointed stakes as he or she could walk under, no matter if it was only
one. All of them were trying to hurry, to accomplish as much as
possible, and no one was complaining even though they were already
staggering with weariness.

"So you think you're entitled to more respect?" Prentiss asked. "Those
kids would work harder if you were giving them orders from under the
shade of a tree--is that what you want?"

Bemmon's lips thinned and hatred was like a sheen on his face. Prentiss
looked from the single stake Bemmon had cut that morning to Bemmon's
white, unblistered hands. He looked at the hatchet that Bemmon had
thrown down in the rocks and at the V notch broken in its keen-edged
blade. It had been the best of the very few hatchets they had....

"The next time you even nick that hatchet I'm going to split your skull
with it," he said. "Pick it up and get back to work. I mean _work_.
You'll have broken blisters on every finger tonight or you'll go on the
log-carrying force tomorrow. Now, move!"

What Bemmon had thought to be his wrath deserted him before Prentiss's
fury. He stooped to obey the order but the hatred remained on his face
and when the hatchet was in his hands he made a last attempt to bluster:

"The day may come when we'll refuse to tolerate any longer your sadistic
displays of authority."

"Good," Prentiss said. "Anyone who doesn't like my style is welcome to
try t