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inspector, would choose to stick his nose in. Another mark in his little notebook—and enoughmarks like that meant a derating,and Control had a habit ofsending derated labmen to Venus.That wasn't a criminal punishment,but it amounted to thesame thing. Allen Lancaster hadno fear of it for himself; thesector chief of a Project wasunder direct Control jurisdictionrather than Efficiency, and Controlwas friendly to him. Buthe'd hate to see young Rogersget it—the boy had been marriedonly a week now.
To top the day off, a reporthad come to Lancaster's deskfrom Sector Seven of the Project.Security had finally clearedit for general transmission tosector chiefs—and it was thecomplete design of an electronicvalve on which some of the bestmen in Lancaster's own division,Sector Thirteen, had been sweatingfor six months. There wenthalf a year's work down thedrain, all for nothing, and Lancasterwould have that much lessto show at the next Project reckoning.
He had cursed for several minutesstraight, drawing the admiringglances of his assistants.It was safe enough for a high-rankinglabman to gripe aboutSecurity—in fact, it was more orless expected. Scientists hadtheir privileges.
One of these was a privatethree-room apartment. Anotherwas an extra liquor ration. Tonight,as he came home, Lancasterdecided to make a dent inthe latter. He'd eaten at the commissary,as usual, but hadn'tstayed to talk. All the way homein the tube, he'd been thinkingof that whiskey and soda.
Now it sparkled gently in hisglass and he sighed, letting asmile crease his lean homelyface. He was a tall man, a littlestooped, his clothes—uniformand mufti alike—perpetuallyrumpled. Solitary by nature, hewas still unmarried in spite ofthe bachelor tax and had onlyone son. The boy was ten yearsold now, must be in the YouthGuard; Lancaster wasn't sure,never having seen him.
It was dark outside his windows,but a glow above the wallsacross the skyway told of thecity pulsing and murmuring beyond.He liked the quiet of hisevenings alone and had withstooda good deal of personal andofficial pressure to serve invarious patriotic organizations."Damn it," he had explained,"I'm not doing routine work. I'mon a Project, and I need relaxationof my own choosing."
He selected a tape from hislibrary. Eine Kleine Nachtmusiklilted joyously about him as hefound a chair and sat down. Controlhadn't gotten around tomaking approved lists of musicyet, though you'd surely neverhear Mozart in a public place.Lancaster got a cigar from thehumidor and collapsed his longgaunt body across chair and hassock.Smoke, whiskey, good music—theywashed his mind cleanof worry and frustration; hedrifted off in a mist of unformeddreams. Yes, it wasn'tsuch a bad world.
The mail-tube went ping! andhe opened his eyes, swearing.For a moment he was tempted tolet the pneumo-roll lie where itfell, but habit was too strong. Hegrumbled his way over