functionas a man whose drain on the station’s supplies no
longer could be justified in terms of what he did. A year of
living under the eyes of Eva Chavez and Charity Dillon and
the other men and women who still remained Bridge opera-
tors, men and women who would not hesitate to let him
know what they thought of his quitting.
A year of living as a bystander in the feverish excitement of
direct, personal exploration of Jupiter. A year of watching and
hearing the inevitable deathswhile he alone stood aloof, priv-
ileged and useless. A year during which Robert Helmuth would
become the most hated living entity in the Jovian system.
And, when he got back to Chicago and went looking for a
jobfor his resignation from the Bridge gang would auto-
matically take him out of government servicehe would be
asked why he left the Bridge at the moment when work on
the Bridge was just reaching its culmination.
He began to understand why the man in the dream had
volunteered.
When the trick-change bell rang, he was still determined
to resign, but he had already concluded bitterly that there
were, after all, other kinds of hells besides the one on Jupiter.
He was returning the board to neutral as Charity came up
the cleats. Charity’s eyes were snapping like a skyful of com-
ets. Helmuth had known that they would be.
“Senator Wagoner wants to speak to you, if you’re not too
tired, Bob,” he said. “Go ahead; I’ll finish up there.”
“He does?” Helmuth frowned. The dream surged back
upon him. NO. “They would not rush him any faster than he