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confidential report is true—plenty. She's a recruiting sergeant, no less. Any officer with whom she's shipmates who's disgruntled, on the verge of throwing his hand in—or on the verge of being emptied out—she'll turn on the womanly sympathy for, and tell him that there'll always be a job waiting out on the Rim, that the Sundowner Line is shortly going to expand, so there'll be quick promotion and all the rest of it."

    "And what's that to do with me, Captain? "

    "Are all Survey Service ensigns as innocent as you, Mr. Grimes? Merchant officers the Rim Worlds want, and badly. Naval officers they'll want more badly still once the balloon goes up." Grimes permitted himself a superior smile. "It's extremely unlikely, sir, that I shall ever want to leave the Survey Service."

    "Unlikely perhaps—but not impossible. So bear in mind what I've told you. I think that you'll be able to look after yourself now that you know the score."

    "I think so too," Grimes told him firmly. He thought, The old bastard's been reading too many spy stories.

VII

    THEY WERE DANCING.

    Tables and chairs had been cleared from the ship's saloon, and from the big, ornate playmaster throbbed the music of an orchestra so famous that even Grimes had heard of it—The Singing Drums.

    They were dancing.

    Some couples shuffled a sedate measure, never losing the contact between their magnetically shod feet and the polished deck. Others—daring or foolhardy—cavorted in Nul-G, gamboled fantastically but rarely gracefully in Free Fall.

    They were dancing.

    Ensign Grimes was trying to dance.

    It was not the fault of his partner that he was making such a sorry mess of it. She, Jane Pentecost, proved the truth of the oft-made statement that spacemen and spacewomen are expert at this form of exercise. He, John Grimes, was the exception that proves the rule. He was sweating, and his feet felt at least six times their normal size. Only the fact that he was holding Jane, and closely, saved him from absolute misery.

    There was a pause in the music. As it resumed Jane said, "Let's sit this one out, Admiral."

    "If you wish to," he replied, trying not to sound too grateful.

    "That's right. I wish to. I don't mind losing a little toenail varnish, but I think we'll call it a day while I still have a full set of toenails."

    "I'm sorry," he said.

    "So am I." But the flicker of a smile robbed the words of their sting.

    She led the way to the bar. It was deserted save for the bored and sulky girl behind the gleaming counter. "All right, Sue," Jane told her. "You can join the revels. The Admiral and I will mind the shop."

    "Thank you, Miss Pentecost." Sue let herself out from her little cage, vanished gracefully and rapidly in the direction of the saloon. Jane took her place.

    "I like being a barmaid," she told the ensign, taking two frosted bulbs out of the cooler.

    "I'll sign for these," offered Grimes.

    "You will not. This comes under the heading of entertaining influential customers."

    "But I'm not. Influential, I mean."

    "But you will be." She went on dreamily. "I can see it. I can just see it. The poor old Delia O'Ryan, even more decrepit that she is now, and her poor old purser, about to undergo a fate worse than death at the hands of bloody pirates from the next Galaxy but three . . . . But all is not lost. There, light years distant, is big, fat, Grand Admiral Grimes aboard his flagship, busting a gut, to say nothing of his Mannschenn Drive unit, to rush to the rescue of his erstwhile girlfriend. 'Dammitall,' I can hear him muttering into his beard. 'Dammitall. That girl used to give me free drinks when I was a snotty nosed ensign. I will repay. Full speed ahead, Gridley, and damn the torpedoes!' "

    Grimes laughed—then asked sharply, "Admiral in which service?"

    "What do you mean, John?" She eyed him warily.

    "You know what I mean."

    "So . . ." she murmured. "So . . . I know that you had another home truth session with the Bearded