behind his old shield of belligerence. "My name is Lee Hayden."

"I know, sir."

"I was in room 1106."

The clerk nodded.

"Who rented it for me?"

"Why, Mr. Clifford, sir. I thought you knew."

"I just wanted to find out if you knew." Lee tossed down his key. "I'm going out."

"Certainly, sir."

"Well?"

"Well, what, sir?"

"The bill. Don't people pay to stay here—or is it a charity institution?"

"Oh, no sir. We are not a charity institution. But your bill was paid for by—"

"I know—by Mr. Clifford." Lee scowled and strode out into the street.

He walked from the hotel straight to the nearest bar. He knocked off a double bourbon, neat, and let it warm the lining of his stomach. It felt good. He set down his glass and gestured to the barkeep. Then he was looking into the refilled glass and making no move to lift it. A moment later he was out in the street, realizing this was the first time in eighteen months that he'd walked away from a drink.

It was no reformation, though; merely a temporary diversion of his mind from a prime objective; that of drinking himself to death; that of blotting from his brain the picture of eleven men dying horribly as the ship he had designed shivered and buckled and collapsed in deep space.

Not even a temporary respite, because the horrible vision of his own shortcomings—his own failure—was still there. But how could he have known? Neither he nor anyone else could possibly have been aware of the true conditions encountered out there. 

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