ou're on first-class."

They could afford it, Doc decided. He wouldn't cost them much,
considering the distance he was going. "Bring me two complete
dinners--one Earth-normal and one Mars-normal."

"Okay, Feldman. But if you think you can suicide that way, you're wrong.
You may be sick, but you'll be alive when they dump you."

A sharp click interrupted him. "That's enough, Steward. Captain Everts
speaking. Dr. Feldman, you have my apologies. Until you reach your
destination, you are my passenger and entitled to every consideration of
any other passenger except freedom of movement through the ship. I am
always available for legitimate complaints."

Feldman shook his head. He'd heard of such men. But he'd thought the
species extinct.

The steward brought his food in a thoroughly chastened manner. He
managed to find space for it and came to attention. "Is that all--sir?"

For a moment, as the smell of real steak reached him, Doc regretted the
fact that his metabolism had been switched. Then he shrugged. A little
wouldn't hurt him, though there was no proper nourishment in it. He
squeezed some of the gravy and bits of meat into one of his bottles,
sticking to his purpose; then he fell to on the rest. But after a few
bites, it was queerly unsatisfactory. The seemingly unappealing
Mars-normal ragout suited his current tastes better, after all.

Once the steward had cleared away the dishes, Doc went to work. It was
better than wasting his time in dread. He might even be able to leave
some notes behind.

A gong sounded, and a red light warned him that acceleration was due. He
finished with his bottles, put them into the incubator, and piled into
his bunk, swallowing one of the tablets of morphetal the ship furnished.

Acceleration had ended, and a simple breakfast was waiting when he
awoke. There was also a red flashing light over the call board. He
flipped the switch while reaching for the coffee.

"Captain Everts," the speaker said. "May I join you in your cabin?"

"Come ahead," Feldman invited. He cut off the switch and glanced at the
clock on the wall. There were less than eleven hours left to him.

Everts was a trim man of forty, erect but not rigid. There was neither
friendliness nor hostility in his glance. His words were courteous as
Doc motioned toward the tray of breakfast. "I've already eaten, thank
you."

He accepted a chair. His voice was apologetic when he began. "This is a
personal matter which I