Stewart Raley found his seat in the Commuter’s Special—the stratojet that carried him every day from the Metropolitan New York Business Area to his suburban home in northern New Hampshire—with legs that literally felt not and eyes that really and truly saw not.

It was pure habit, years and years of the same repetitive act, that enabled him to find his accustomed place at the window beside Ed Greene; it was habit that pushed his forefinger at the button imbedded in the seat back immediately ahead of him; and it was habit that then kept him staring at the late-afternoon news telecast in the tiny seat-back screen, even though none of his senses registered a single one of the rapid-fire, excitedly announced bulletins.

He did hear, dimly, the scream of the jet’s takeoff, but it was habit again that kept his feet firm on the floor and that tensed his abdominal muscles against the encircling safety belt. And that meant, he realized, that he was getting closer to a situation where habit would be of no help at all—where nothing would be of any help. Not against about the worst possible thing that could happen to a man in 2080 A.D.

“Had a rough day, Stew?” Ed Greene asked him with beery aoudness. “You look tired as hell.”

Raley felt his lips move, but it was a while before sound came out of his throat. “Yes,” he said finally. “I had a rough day.”

“Well, and who asked you to work for Solar Minerals?” Ed asked, as if he were replying to a sharply phrased argument. “These interplanetary corporations are all the same: pressure, pressure, pressure. You got to get the invoices ready right now, this minute, this second, because the Neptunian supply ship is leaving and there won’ t be another one for six months; you got to get the Mercury correspondence all dictated because—Don’t I know? I worked for Outer Planet Pharmaceuticals fifteen years ago and 1 had a goddam bellyful. Give me the real-estate racket and accounts in the Metropolitan New York Business Area. Quiet. Solid. Calm.”