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After he had stepped out of the elevator, along with the others, and the door had closed behind him, St. Simon carefully opened the cracking valve on his helmet. There was a faint hiss of incoming air, adjusting the slight pressure differential. He took off his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the check-in station.

He was walking down the corridor toward the checker’s office when a hand clapped him on the shoulder. “Bless me if it isn’t St. Simon the Silent! Long time no, if you’ll pardon the cliche, see!”

St. Simon turned, grinning. He had recognized the voice. “Hi, Kerry. Good to see you.”

“Good to see me? Forsooth! Od’s bodkins! Hast turned liar on top of everything else, Good Saint? Good to see me, indeed! ‘From such a face and form as mine, the noblest sentiments sound like the black utterances of a depraved imagination.’ No, dear old holy pillar-sitter, no indeed! It may be a pleasure to hear my mellifluous voice–a pleasure I often indulge in, myself–but it couldn’t possibly be a pleasure to see me!” And all the while, St. Simon was being pummeled heartily on the shoulder, while his hand was pumped as though the other man was expecting to strike oil at any moment.

His assailant was not a handsome man. Years before, a rare, fast-moving meteor had punched its way through his helmet and taken part of his face with it. He had managed to get back to his ship and pump air in before he lost consciousness. He had had to stay conscious, because the only thing that held the air in his helmet had been his hand pressed over the quarter-inch hole. Even so, the drop in pressure had done its damage. The surgeons had done their best to repair the smashed face, but Kerry Brand’s face hadn’t been much to look at to begin with. And the mottled purple of the distended veins and capillaries did little to improve his looks.

But his ruined face was a badge of honor, and Kerry Brand knew the fact as well as anyone.

Like St. Simon, Captain Brand was a professional anchor-setter. Most of the men who put in the necessary two years went on to better jobs after they had the required space experience. But there were some who liked the job and stuck with it. It was only these men–the real experts among the anchor-setting fraternity–who rated the title of “Captain”. They were free-lancers who ran things pretty much their own way.

“Just going to the checker?” St. Simon asked.

Kerry Brand shook his head. “I’ve already checked in, old sanctus. And I’ll give you three and one-seventh guesses who got a blue ticket.”

St. Simon said nothing, but he pointed a finger at Brand’s chest.

“A mild surmise, but a true one,” said Brand. “You are, indeed, gazing upon Professor Kerry Brand, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.–that is to say, Borer of Asteroids, Master of Anchors, and Planetoid-hauler De-luxe. No, no; don’t look sorry for me. Somebody has to teach the tadpoles How To Survive In Space If You’re Not Too Stupid To Live–a subject upon which I am an expert.”

“On Being Too Stupid To Live?” St. Simon asked gently.

“A touch! A distinct touch! You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself.” He looked at the watch on his wrist. “Why don’t you go ahead and check in, and then we’ll go pub-crawling. I have it on good authority that a few thousand gallons of Danish ale were piped aboard Pallas yesterday, and you and I should do our best to reduce the surplus.”

“Sounds good to me,” said St. Simon agreeably. They started on toward the checker’s office.

“Consider, my dear St. Simon,” said Brand, “how fortunate we are to be living in an age and a society where the dictum, ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach,’ no longer holds true. It means that we weary, work-hardened experts are called in every so often, handed our little blue ticket, and given six months off–with pay–if we will only do the younger generation the favor of pounding a modicum of knowledge into their heads. During that time, if we are very careful, we can try to prevent our muscles from going to flab and our brains from corroding with ennui, so that when we again debark into the infinite sea of emptiness which surrounds us to pursue our chosen profession, we don’t get killed on the first try. Isn’t it wonderful?”