“All right,” said Cochrane.  “You’re keeping your eyes closed.  But I’m supposed to take orders from you.  What sort of orders are you going to give?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Holden thinly.  “We are sent up here on a private job for Hopkins—­one of your bosses.  Hopkins has a daughter.  She’s married to a man named Dabney.  He’s neurotic.  He’s made a great scientific discovery and it isn’t properly appreciated.  So you and I and your team of tame scientists—­we’re on our way to the Moon to save his reason.”

“Why save his reason?” asked Cochrane cynically.  “If it makes him happy to be a crackpot—­”

“It doesn’t,” said Holden, with his eyes still closed.  He gulped.  “Your job and a large part of my practice depends on keeping him out of a looney-bin.  It amounts to a public-relations job, a production, with me merely censoring aspects that might be bad for Dabney’s psyche.  Otherwise he’ll be frustrated.”

“Aren’t we all?” demanded Cochrane.  “Who in hades does he think he is?  Most of us want appreciation, but we have to be glad when we do our work and get paid for it!  We—­”

Then he swore bitterly.  He had been taken off the job he’d spent years learning to do acceptably, to phoney a personal satisfaction for the son-in-law of one of the partners of the firm he worked for.  It was humiliation to be considered merely a lackey who could be ordered to perform personal services for his boss, without regard to the damage to the work he was really responsible for.  It was even more humiliating to know he had to do it because he couldn’t afford not to.

Babs appeared, obviously gloating over the mere fact that she was walking in magnetic-soled slippers on the steel decks of the space platform.  Her eyes were very bright.  She said: 

“Mr. Cochrane, hadn’t you better come look at Earth out of the quartz Earthside windows?”

“Why?” demanded Cochrane bitterly.  “If it wasn’t that I’d have to hold onto something with both hands, in order to do it, I’d be kicking myself.  Why should I want to do tourist stuff?”

“So,” said Babs, “so later on you can tell when a writer or a scenic designer tries to put something over on you in a space platform show.”

Cochrane grimaced.

“In theory, I should.  But do you realize what all this is about?  I just learned!” When Babs shook her head he said sardonically, “We are on the way to the Moon to stage a private production out of sheer cruelty.  We’re hired to rob a happy man of the luxury of feeling sorry for himself.  We’re under Holden’s orders to cure a man of being a crackpot!”

Babs hardly listened.  She was too much filled with the zest of being where she’d never dared hope to be able to go.

“I wouldn’t want to be cured of being a crackpot,” protested Cochrane, “if only I could afford such a luxury!  I’d—­”

Babs said urgently: 

“You’ll have to hurry, really!  They told me it starts in ten minutes, so I came to find you right away.”