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“So we realize. We put you under surveillance at once

and I have a report, a rather full one, of the conversation you had with Miss Cheryl Winter. It was the second conversation on the subject.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Apparently you intended the meat of the conversation to be passed on to Mr. Viluekis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You did not consider going to Mr. Viluekis personally?”

“I doubt that he would have listened, sir.”

“Or to me.”

“You might have listened, but how would you pass on the information to Mr. Viluekis? You might then have had to use Miss Winter yourself. Fusionists have their peculiarities.”

The captain nodded abstractedly. “What was it you expected to happen when Miss Winter passed on the information to Mr. Viluekis?”

“My hope, sir,” said Martand, “was that he would be less defensive with Miss Winter than with anyone else; that he would feel less threatened. I was hoping that he would laugh and say the idea was a simple one that had occurred to him long before, and that, indeed, the scoops were already working, with the intent of promoting the chemical reaction. Then, when he got rid of Miss Winter, and I imagine he would do that quickly, he would start the scoops and report his action to you, sir, omitting any reference to myself or Miss Winter.”

“You did not think he might dismiss the whole notion as unworkable?”

“There was that chance, but it didn't happen.”

“How do you know?”

“Because half an hour after I was placed in detention, sir, the lights in the room in which I was kept dimmed perceptibly and did not brighten again. I assumed that energy expenditure in the ship was being cut to the bone, and assumed further that Viluekis was throwing everything into the pot so that the chemical reaction would supply enough for ignition.”

The captain frowned. “What made you so sure you could manipulate Mr. Viluekis? Surely you have never dealt with Fusionists, have you?”

“Ah, but I teach the eighth-grade, captain. I have dealt with other children.”

For a moment the captain's expression remained wooden. And then slowly it relaxed into a smile. “I like you, Mr. Martand,” he said, “but it won't help you. Your expectations did come to pass; as nearly as I can tell, exactly as you had hoped. But do you understand what followed?”

“I will, if you tell me.”

“Mr. Viluekis had to evaluate your suggestion and decide, at once, whether it was practical. He had to make a number of careful adjustments to the system to allow chemical reactions without knocking out the possibility of future fusion. He had to determine the maximum safe rate of reaction; the amount of stored energy to save; the point at which ignition might safely be attempted; the kind and nature of the Jump. It all had to be done quickly and noone else but a Fusionist could have done it. In fact, not every Fusionist could have done it; Mr. Viluekis is exceptional even for a Fusionist. Do you see?”

“Quite well.” The captain looked at the timepiece on the wall and activated his viewport. It was black, as it had been now for the better part of two days. “Mr. Viluekis has informed me of the time at which he will attempt Jump-ignition. He thinks it will work and I am confident in his judgment.”

“If he misses,” said Martand somberly, “we may find ourselves in the same position as before, but stripped of energy.”

“I realize that,” said Hanson, “and since you might feel a certain responsibility over having placed the idea in the Fusionist's mind, I thought you might want to wait through the few moments of suspense ahead of us.”

Both men were silent now, watching the screen, while first seconds, then minutes, moved past. Hanson had not mentioned the exact deadline and Martand had no way of telling how imminent it was or whether it had passed. He could only shift his glance, occasionally and momentarily, to the captain's face, which maintained a studied expressionlessness.

And then came that queer internal wrench that disappeared almost at once, like a tic in the abdominal wall. They had Jumped.

“Stars!” said Hanson in a whisper of deep satisfaction. The viewport had burst into a riot of them, and at that moment Martand could recall no sweeter sight in all his life.

“And on the second,” said Hanson. “ A beautiful job. We're energy-stripped now, but we'll be full again in anywhere from one to three weeks, and during that time the passengers will have their view.”

Martand felt too weak with relief to speak.

The captain turned to him. “Now, Mr. Martand. Your idea had merit. One could argue that it saved the ship and everyone on it. One could also argue that Mr. Viluekis was sure to think of it himself soon enough. But there will be no argument about it at all, for under no conditions can your part in this be known. Mr. Viluekis did the joband it was a great one of pure virtuosity even after we take into account the fact that you may have sparked it. He will be commended for it and receive great honors. You will receive nothing.”

Martand was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I understand. A Fusionist is indispensable and I am of no account. If Mr. Viluekis's pride is hurt in the slightest, he may become useless to you, and you can't afford to lose him. For myself-well, be it as you wish. Good day, Captain.”

“Not quite,” said the captain. “We can't trust you.”

“I won't say anything.”

“You may not intend to, but things happen. We can't take the chance. For the remainder of the flight you will be under house arrest.”

Martand frowned. “For what? I saved you and your damned ship - and your Fusionist.”

“For exactly that. For saving it. That's the way it works out.”

“Where's the justice?”

Slowly the captain shook his head. “It's a rare commodity, I admit, and sometimes too expensive to afford. You can't even go back to your room. You will be seeing no one in what remains of the trip.”

Martand rubbed the side of his chin with one finger. “Surely you don't mean that literally, Captain.”

“I'm afraid I do.”

“But there is another who might talk-accidentally and without meaning to. You had better place Miss Winter under house arrest, too.”

“And double the injustice?”

“Misery loves company,” said Martand.

And the captain smiled. “Perhaps you're right,” he said.

Writer-friends come and go, too, alas. After I moved to New York, I frequently saw a number of writers whom, while I was in Boston, I had seen only occasionally. Lester del Rey and Robert Silverberg are examples. But then in 1972 Bob moved to California and I lost him again.

I had a chance to do one last thing for John Campbell, by the way. Itoccurred to Harry Harrison to do an anthology of stories of the kind that John Campbell had made famous by the authors he had made famous. Naturally, I was one of the authors, and in March 1972 I offered to do another “thiotimoline” article.

I had done three in my time and they had made a considerable stir. The first was The Endochronic Properties of Resublimated Thiotimoline and it had appeared in the March 1948, Astounding under circumstances described in THE EARLY ASIMOV (where the article was reprinted).

The second was The Micropsychiatric Applications of Thiotimoline, which appeared in the December 1953 Astounding. It, along with the first, was included in my collection ONLY A TRILLION (Abelard-Schuman, 1957).

The third was Thiotimoline and the Space Age, which appeared in the September 1960 Analog and was included in my book OPUS 100 (Houghton Mifflin, 1969).

Now I wrote a fourth, a quarter century after the first, and it was THIOTIMOLINE TO THE STARS.