Cochrane grimly endured the rest of the taped lecture.  He thought sourly to himself:  “I’m a captive audience without even an interest in the production tricks.”

Presently he saw Bill Holden’s head.  The psychiatrist had squirmed inside the straps that held him, and now was staring about within the rocket.  His complexion was greenish.

“I understand you’re to brief me,” Cochrane told him, “on the way up.  Do you want to tell me now what all this is about?  I’d like a nice dramatic narrative, with gestures.”

Holden said sickly: 

“Go to hell, won’t you?”

His head disappeared.  Space-nausea was, of course, as definite an ailment as seasickness.  It came from no weight.  But Cochrane seemed to be immune.  He turned his mind to the possible purposes of his journey.  He knew nothing at all.  His own personal share in the activities of Kursten, Kasten, Hopkins and Fallowe—­the biggest advertising agency in the world—­was the production of the Dikkipatti Hour, top-talent television show, regularly every Wednesday night between eight-thirty and nine-thirty o’clock central U. S. time.  It was a good show.  It was among the ten most popular shows on three continents.  It was not reasonable that he be ordered to drop it and take orders from a psychiatrist, even one he’d known unprofessionally for years.  But there was not much, these days, that really made sense.

In a world where cities with populations of less than five millions were considered small towns, values were peculiar.  One of the deplorable results of living in a world over-supplied with inhabitants was that there were too many people and not enough jobs.  When one had a good job, and somebody higher up than oneself gave an order, it was obeyed.  There was always somebody else or several somebodies waiting for every job there was—­hoping for it, maybe praying for it.  And if a good job was lost, one had to start all over.

This task might be anything.  It was not, however, connected in any way with the weekly production of the Dikkipatti Hour.  And if that production were scamped this week because Cochrane was away, he would be the one to take the loss in reputation.  The fact that he was on the moon wouldn’t count.  It would be assumed that he was slipping.  And a slip was not good.  It was definitely not good!

“I could do a documentary right now,” Cochrane told himself angrily, “titled ‘Man-afraid-of-his-job.’  I could make a very authentic production.  I’ve got the material!”

He felt weight for a moment.  It was accompanied by booming noises.  The sounds were not in the air outside, because there was no air.  They were reverberations of the rocket-motors themselves, transmitted to the fabric of the ship.  The ship’s steering-rockets were correcting the course of the vessel and—­yes, there was another surge of power—­nudging it to a more correct line of flight to meet the space platform coming up from behind.  The platform went around the world six times a day, four thousand miles out.  During three of its revolutions anybody on the ground, anywhere, could spot it in daylight as an infinitesimal star, bright enough to be seen against the sky’s blueness, rising in the west and floating eastward to set at the place of sunrise.