"Shut up, Moore," Verrick muttered, moving a few steps away; people hurriedly stepped aside for him. "This chance stuff has got to go. You can't plan anything with it hanging over your head."

"That's why we have it!" Moore shouted after him.

"Then get rid of it."

"Minimax isn't something you turn on and off. It's like gravity; it's a law, a pragmatic law."

Benteley had moved over to listen. "You believe in natural law?" he asked.

"Who's this fellow?" Moore snarled, glaring furiously at Benteley. "What's his idea in butting in?"

Verrick swelled another foot taller. "This is Ted Benteley. Class eight-eight, same as you. We recently took him on."

Moore blanched. "Eight-eight! We don't need any more eight-eights!" His face became an ugly yellow. "Benteley? You're one of the Oiseau-Lyre throw-outs."

"That's right," Benteley said evenly. "And I came straight here."

"Why?"

"I'm interested in what you're doing."

"What I'm doing is none of your business!"

Verrick said hoarsely to Moore: "Shut up or get out. Benteley's working with you from now on, whether you like it or not."

"Nobody gets into the project but me!" Hatred, fear, and professional jealousy blazed on Moore's face. "If he can't hang on at a third-rate Hill like Oiseau-Lyre he isn't good enough to———"

"We'll see," Benteley said coolly. "I'm itching to get my hands on your notes and papers. I'll enjoy going over your work,"

"I want a drink," Verrick muttered.

Moore shot Benteley a last glance of resentment and then hurried after Verrick. Their voices trailed off as a door was slammed. The crowd of people shifted and began to murmur wearily and break apart.