ated, then reluctantly rolled a smoke. He held the
cigarette while the spaceman took a long, gasping drag on it. He smoked
the remainder himself, letting the harsh tobacco burn against his lungs
and sicken his empty stomach. Then he shrugged and threaded his way
through the narrow aisles toward the attendant.

"Better get a doctor," he said bitterly, when the young punk looked up
at him. "You've got a man dying of space-stomach on 214."

The sneer on the kid's face deepened. "Yeah? We don't pay for doctors
every time some wino wants to throw up. Forget it and get back where you
belong, bo."

"You'll have a corpse on your hands in an hour," Feldman insisted. "I
know space-stomach, damn it."

The kid turned back to his lottery sheet. "Go treat yourself if you
wanta play doctor. Go on, scram--before I toss you out in the snow!"

One of Feldman's white-knuckled hands reached for the attendant. Then he
caught himself. He started to turn back, hesitated, and finally faced
the kid again. "I'm not fooling. And I _was_ a doctor," he stated. "My
name is Daniel Feldman."

The attendant nodded absently, until the words finally penetrated. He
looked up, studied Feldman with surprised curiosity and growing
contempt, and reached for the phone. "Gimme Medical Directory," he
muttered.

Feldman felt the kid's eyes on his back as he stumbled through the
aisles to his cot again. He slumped down, rolling another cigarette in
hands that shook. The sick man was approaching delirium now, and the
moans were mixed with weak whining sounds of fear. Other men had wakened
and were watching, but nobody made a move to help.

The retching and writhing of the sick man had begun to weaken, but it
was still not too late to save him. Hot water and skillful massage could
interrupt the paroxysms. In fifteen minutes, Feldman could have stopped
the attack completely.

He found his feet on the floor and his hands already reaching out.
Savagely he pulled himself back. Sure, he could save the man--and wind
up in the gas chamber! There'd be no mercy for his second offense
against Lobby laws. If the spaceman lived, Feldman might get off with a
flogging--that was standard punishment for a pariah who stepped out of
line. But with his luck, there would be a heart arrest and another juicy
story for the papers.

Idealism! The Medical Lobby made a lot out of the word. But it wasn't
for him. A pariah had no business thinking of others.

As Feldman sat there