f the tall, blond. He could easily visualize the
insolent, sleepy looking eyes--the careless weave of the heavy
shoulders. And he'd heard a lot about the man's actions.

But these could mean anything. Was the man actually as clumsy and
inept as he'd seemed? Was he simply a powerful oaf, who relied on pure
strength and savagery? Or was he a cunning fighter, who had made one
contemptuously careless mistake?

"Well," the maintenance man was saying, "that's the way you set those
upper coils. Remember, each one has its own field angle, and you've
got to set 'em down to within a tenth of a degree. Otherwise, you'll
never get a sharp focus and your spray'll make a real mess." He swept
his glance over the group.

"You use the manual when you set these things up," he added. "Don't go
depending on your memory. You can play some pretty dirty tricks on
yourself that way." He looked thoughtfully at the array of coils.

"And don't go using any gravito clamps around these things when the
back's off. They don't like it. It makes 'em do nasty things." He
flipped his wrist up, looking at his watch.

"All right, that's it. Let's go eat." He snapped a cover back in place
and swung down from the catwalk.

Stan turned away. No tools to put away tonight, he thought. Didn't
need 'em all afternoon. He smiled. And no column to fall into, either.
This was the weekly free night.

He walked out of the shop, following a group of prisoners through the
archway into the main yard. Another small group followed him, keeping
a decent interval behind.

Someone drew a sharp breath.

"Hey, look! Over there."

Stan followed the direction indicated by a dozen abruptly turned
heads. Vernay was lounging in the shadow of the archway. He smiled
tigerishly and sauntered toward Stan. The group of prisoners melted
away, to form a rough semicircle. From somewhere, others were
appearing.

"So all right, little rat," Vernay said softly, "you've had a lot of
fun these last few days, eh? Big man around the yard, huh? Yeah! Well,
it's going to stop." He massaged his right hand with the thumb and
fingers of his left, then stretched out his arms, flexing his fingers.

"Real smart little fella," he added. "Knows all kinds of little
tricks. Got anything to say before I open you up for inspection?"

Stan faced him, his feet a few inches apart, his knees slightly bent.
He folded his arms without interlacing them.

"Look, Vernay," he said. "I'm not looking for a