the key had been in his possession for a
year, jealousy guarded against loss during all the time he had been on
Lobon; the other half had been kept by the manager of the Excelsior
Apartments.

As the door opened, Turnbull noticed the faint musty odor that told of
long-unused and poorly circulated air. The conditioners had been turned
down to low power for a year now.

He went inside and allowed the door to close silently behind him. The
apartment was just the same--the broad expanse of pale blue rug, the
matching furniture, including the long, comfortable couch and the fat
overstuffed chair--all just as he'd left them.

He ran a finger experimentally over the top of the table near the door.
There was a faint patina of dust covering the glossy surface, but it was
very faint, indeed. He grinned to himself. In spite of the excitement of
the explorations on Lobon, it was great to be home again.

He went into the small kitchen, slid open the wall panel that concealed
the apartment's power controls, and flipped the switch from
"maintenance" to "normal." The lights came on, and there was a faint
sigh from the air conditioners as they began to move the air at a more
normal rate through the rooms.

Then he walked over to the liquor cabinet, opened it, and surveyed the
contents. There, in all their glory, sat the half dozen bottles of
English sherry that he'd been dreaming about for twelve solid months. He
took one out and broke the seal almost reverently.

Not that there had been nothing to drink for the men on Lobon: the
University had not been so blue-nosed as all that. But the choice had
been limited to bourbon and Scotch. Turnbull, who was not a whisky
drinker by choice, had longed for the mellow smoothness of Bristol Cream
Sherry instead of the smokiness of Scotch or the heavy-bodied strength
of the bourbon.

He was just pouring his first glass when the announcer chimed. Frowning,
Turnbull walked over to the viewscreen that was connected to the little
eye in the door. It showed the face of--what was his name? Samson?
Sanders. That was it, Sanders, the building superintendent.

Turnbull punched the opener and said: "Come in. I'll be right with you,
Mr. Sanders."

Sanders was a round, pleasant-faced, soft-voiced man, a good ten years
older than Turnbull himself. He was standing just inside the door as
Turnbull entered the living room; there was a small brief case in his
hand. He extended the other hand as Turnbull