Haney grabbed. There was a moment's
frenzied struggling. Then Mike was helplessly wrapped in Haney's arms,
incoherent with fury and shame.

"Crazy fool!" grunted the Chief, feeling his jaw. "What's the matter
with you? Don't you feel good?"

He was angry, but he was more concerned. Mike was white and raging.

"You tell that," he panted shrilly, "and so help me----"

"What's got into you?" demanded Haney anxiously. "I'd be bragging, I
would, if I'd got a brainstorm like you did! That guy Sanford woulda
wiped us all out----"

The Chief said angrily, between unease and puzzlement:

"I never knew you to go off your nut like this before! What's got into
you, anyway?"

Mike gulped suddenly. Haney still held him firmly, but both Haney and
the Chief were looking at him with worried eyes. And Mike said
desperately: "You were going to tell Sally----"

The Chief snorted.

"Huh! You fool little runt! No! I was going to tell her about you
opening up that airlock when Sanford locked us out! Sure I kidded you
about what you're talking about! Sure! I'm going to do it again! But
that's amongst us! I don't tell that outside!"

Haney made an inarticulate exclamation. He understood, and he was
relieved. But he looked disgusted. He released Mike abruptly, rumbling
to himself. He stared out the window. And Mike stood upright, an absurd
small figure. His face worked a little.

"Okay," said Mike, with a little difficulty. "I was dumb. Only, Chief,
you owe me a sock on the jaw when you feel like it. I'll take it."

He swallowed. Sally was watching wide-eyed.

"Sally," said Mike bitterly, "I'm a bigger fool than I look. I thought
the Chief was going to tell you what happened when I landed. I--I
floated down in a village over there in India, and those crazy savages'd
never seen a parachute, and they began to yell and make gestures, and
first thing I knew they had a sort of litter and were piling me in it,
and throwing flowers all over me, and there was a procession----"

Sally listened blankly. Mike told the tale of his shame with the very
quintessence of bitter resentment. When he got to his installation in a
red-painted mud temple, and the reverent and forcible removal of his
clothes so he could be greased with butter, Sally's lips began to
twitch. At the picture of Mike in a red loincloth, squirming furiously
while brown-skinned admirers zestfully sang his praises, howling his
rage while they celebrated some sort of pious fest