communications room door.

"What do you expect?" Sanford was saying derisively. "We're clay
pigeons. We're a perfect target. We've just so much ammunition now. You
say you may send us more in three weeks instead of a month. I admire
your persistence, but it's really no use! This is all a very stupid
business...."

He felt Joe's presence. He turned, and then sharply struck the
communicator switch with the heel of his hand. The image on the
television screen died. The voice cut off. He said blandly: "Well?"

"I want," said Joe, "to take a garbage-disposal party out on the outside
of the Platform. I came to ask for authority."

Sanford looked at him in mocking surprise.

"To be sure it seems as intelligent as anything else the human race has
ever done," he observed. "But why does it appeal to you as something you
want to do?"

"I think," Joe told him, "that we can make a defense against bombs from
Earth with our empty tin cans."

Sanford raised his eyebrows.

"If you happen to have a four-leaf clover with you," he said in fine
irony, "I'm told they're good, too."

His eyes were bright and scornful. His manner was feverishly derisive.