osit in the lead drawers. Passengers will please recline in their
bunks and fasten the retaining straps before the steward arrives.
Repeat, passengers will please...."

Bart took off his belt, stuck it and his cuff links in the drawer and
lay down. Then, in a sudden panic, he got up again. His papers as Bart
Steele were still in the sack. He got them out, and with a feeling as if
he were crossing a bridge and burning it after him, tore up every scrap
of paper that identified him as Bart Steele of Vega Four, graduate of
the Space Academy of Earth. Now, for better or worse, he was--who _was_
he? He hadn't even looked at the new papers Briscoe had given him!

He glanced through them quickly. They were made out to David Warren
Briscoe, of Aldebaran Four. According to them, David Briscoe was twenty
years old, hair black, eyes hazel, height six foot one inch. Bart
wondered, painfully, if Briscoe had a son and if David Briscoe knew
where his father was. There was also a license, validated with four runs
on the Aldebaran Intrasatellite Cargo Company--planetary ships--with the
rank of Apprentice Astrogator; and a considerable sum of money.

Bart put the papers in his pants pocket and the torn-up scraps of his
old ones into the trashbin before he realized that they looked exactly
like what they were--torn-up legal identity papers and a broken plastic
card. _Nobody_ destroyed identity papers for any good reason. What could
he do?

Then he remembered something from the Academy. Starships were
closed-system cycles, no waste was discarded, but everything was
collected in big chemical tanks, broken down to separate elements,
purified and built up again into new materials. He threw the paper into
the toilet, worked the plastic card back and forth, back and forth until
he had wrenched it into inch-wide bits, and threw it after them.

The cabin door opened and a Mentorian said irritably, "Please lie down
and fasten your straps. I haven't all day."

Hastily Bart flushed the toilet and went to the bunk. Now everything
that could identify him as Bart Steele was on its way to the breakdown
tanks. Before long, the complex hydrocarbons and cellulose would all be
innocent little molecules of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen; they might turn
up in new combinations as sugar on the table!

The Mentorian grumbled, "You young people think the rules mean everybody
but you," and strapped him far too tightly into the bunk. Bart felt
resentful; just beca