He went into the space-port building. He felt himself growing more
bitter still. Then he found Bill Holden--Doctor William Holden--standing
dejectedly against a wall.

"I believe you've got some orders for me, Bill," said Cochrane
sardonically. "And just what psychiatric help can I give you?"

Holden said tiredly:

"I don't like this any better than you do, Jed. I'm scared to death of
space-travel. But go get your ticket and I'll tell you about it on the
way up. It's a special production job. I'm roped in on it too."

"Happy holiday!" said Cochrane, because Holden looked about as miserable
as a man could look.

He went to the ticket desk. He gave his name. On request, he produced
identification. Then he said sourly:

"While you're working on this I'll make a phone-call."

He went to a pay visiphone. And again there were different levels of
awareness in his mind--one consciously and defensively cynical, and one
frightened at the revelation of his unimportance, and the third finding
the others an unedifying spectacle.

He put the call through with an over-elaborate confidence which he
angrily recognized as an attempt to deceive himself. He got the office.
He said calmly: