Toward the end of the day Calhoun finished his task. He had a matter
of six or seven cubic centimeters of clear liquid as the conclusion of
a long process of culturing, and examination by microscope, and again
culturing plus final filtration. He looked at a clock and calculated
time.

"Better wait until tomorrow," he observed, and put the bit of clear
liquid in a temperature-controlled place of safekeeping.

"What is it?" asked Maril. "What's it for?"

"It's part of a job I have on hand," said Calhoun. He considered. "How
about some music?"

She looked astonished. But he set up an instrument and fed microtape
into it and settled back to listen. Then there was music such as she
had never heard before. It was another device to counteract isolation
and monotonous between-planet voyages. To keep it from losing its
effectiveness, Calhoun rationed himself on music, as on other things.

Any indulgence frequently repeated would become a habit, in the sense
that it would give no special pleasure when indulged in, but would
make for stress if it were omitted. Calhoun deliberately went for
weeks between uses of his recordings, so that music was an event to be
looked forward to and cherished.

When he tapered off the stirring symphonies of Kun Gee with
tranquilizing, soothing melodies from the Rim School of composers,
Maril regarded him with a very peculiar gaze indeed.