down on the surface, grip-soled boots holding him
against that fractional gee by which the asteroid's rotation overcame
its feeble gravity. But it came to him that this was an eerie
bat-fashion way for an Oregon farm boy to stand.

Oregon was long behind him, though, not only the food factory where he
grew up but the coasts where he had fished and the woods where he had
tramped. No loss. There'd always been too many tourists. You couldn't
escape from people on Earth. Cold and vacuum and raw rock and
everything, the Belt was better. It annoyed him to be interrupted
here.

Could Carlos take over as foreman? N-no, Blades decided, not yet. A
gas receptor was an intricate piece of equipment. Carlos was a good
man of his hands. Every one of the hundred-odd in the Station
necessarily was. But he hadn't done this kind of work often enough.

"I have to quit," Blades said. "Secure the stuff and report back to
Buck Meyers over at the dock, the lot of you. His crew's putting in
another recoil pier, as I suppose you know. They'll find jobs for you.
I'll see you here again on your next watch."

* * * * *

He waved--being half the nominal ownership of this place didn't
justify snobbery, when everyone must work together or die--and stepped
off toward the nearest entry lock with that flowing spaceman's pace
which always keeps one foot on the ground. Even so, he didn't
unshackle his inward-reeling lifeline till he was inside the chamber.

On the way he topped a gaunt ridge and had a clear view of he balloons
that were attached to the completed receptors. Those that were still
full bulked enormous, like ghostly moons. The Jovian gases that
strained their tough elastomer did not much blur the stars seen
through them; but they swelled high enough to catch the light of the
hidden sun and shimmer with it. The nearly discharged balloons hung
thin, straining outward. Two full ones passed in slow orbit against
the constellations. They were waiting to be hauled in and coupled
fast, to release their loads into the Station's hungry chemical plant.
But there were not yet enough facilities to handle them at once--and
the _Pallas Castle_ would soon be arriving with another--Blades found
that he needed a few extra curses.

Having cycled through the air lock, he removed his suit and stowed it,
also the heavy gloves which kept him from frostbite as he touched its
space-cold exterior. Tastefully clad in a Navy surpl