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Pomeroy knows. Pomeroy’s seen sights no Humans had ought to bear. Worms. Worms is the least of it.” His goatee bobbed over his scrawny adam’s apple. “Worms and worse.”
    The Chung orbits continued without troubles other than those provided by Svensk and Sylla—and even these two appeared to be letting up. Quent’s only view of the “worms and worse” was on the ship’s screens. Most of the alien commo officers were aquatic. A few did appear wormlike and two had tentacles. There was one truly repellent squid affair with unidentifiable organs floating around its eye stalks. There was also a rather genial dolphinoid to whom Pomeroy was vitriolic. They were the ones who had required transport for the octopi.
    “I’m a broadminded man, sir,” Pomeroy told Quent that night. “Tolerant, Pomeroy is. I put up with ‘em.” He hiccuped. “No choice. Pomeroy’s sunk low. I don’t deny it. But them things down there—” He shuddered and hitched closer confidentially. “They think they’re as good as Humans, sir. Just as good as you, or better. What’ll happen when them things decides they wants to come in the Force, sir? Expect a Human to take orders from a worm?” His bloodshot eyes bored anxiously into Quent’s.
    “Mr. Pomeroy. In case you are under the impression that I share my father’s views on Non-Humans in the Space Force, you are mistaken.”
    “That’s right, sir, you’re a tolerant man too, sir. But a person can’t help wondering—”
    “Kindly wonder to yourself in the future, Mr. Pomeroy,” Quent said coldly. “For your information, I am fully in favor of the integration program. If a being is a competent spacer, I don’t see that his personal appearance enters in.”
    Pomeroy closed his mouth and turned back to his board in offended silence. Presently he paid a prolonged visit to the wardroom and returned, wiping his mouth. For several watches he spoke only when Quent addressed him.
    At the last Chung stop they picked up a short-range freight shuttle whose jockey needed a lift to Farbase. The jockey was a smaller version of Svensk. They got his shuttle stowed without mishap and the Rosenkrantz went into drive for the long run out to Farbase. Quent’s eyebrows began to unknot.
    The run was made in comparative peace, for Quent. Svensk and the freighter pilot bankrupted each other at some exotic topological game, while Sylla occupied himself with trying to key a poetry-scanning function into the computer. Imray grew increasingly taciturn and spent long hours in his cubicle. Sometimes Quent would hear him in a rumbling argument with one of the others. Quent devoted himself to a discreet inspection of the ship’s wiring and managed not to upset Morgan. Things seemed to be settling down.
    This impression strengthened when they got to Farbase. They exchanged the mail and off-loaded the freight shuttle with surprising dispatch. Pomeroy actually changed his shirt. He and the others set off to call on another peebee, the Jasper Banks, which was there en route to a long distance job. Miss Appleby went after the depot officer who had promised her a set of Chung pearl glasses for herself and a case of fish-eggs for the mess. The small, bleak station offered Quent no diversion. He decided to go out and check over the exterior antennae.
    He was suiting up when he heard the others coming back onboard. He climbed to the bridge to find them preparing to take off.
    “Call Appleby,” Imray grunted curtly. “We go now.”
    The next leg was to the sector rim colonies of Goldmine, Tunney, and Sopwith. The ship lifted off with scarcely another word exchanged by its officers. And as soon as they were in drive Imray left the bridge.
    The short run to Goldmine was made in thickening silence. Imray stayed in his cubicle. The others seemed on edge. Only Pomeroy had anything to say—he kept pestering Appleby for reports on Imray’s health.
    “He says his heart bothers him but he won’t let me use the