Raley nodded heavily and rubbed at his forehead. He didn’t have a headache, but he wished he had one. He wished he had anything that would make it impossible for him to think.

“Course, there’s not much money in it,” Ed went on, boomingly viewing the other side of the question. “There’s not much money, but there’s no ulcers either. I’ll probably be stuck in a two-child bracket all my life—but it’ll be a long life. We take things slow and easy in my office. We know little old New York’s been here a long time, and it’ll he here a long time to come.”

“Yes,” Raley said, still staring straight ahead of him. “It will be. New York will be here for a long time to come.”

“Well, don’t say it in such a miserable tone of voice, man! Ganymede will be here for a long time, too! No one’s going to run away with Ganymede!”

Frank Tyler leaned forward from behind them. “How about a little seven-card stud, fellas?” he inquired. “We’ve got a half-hour to kill.”

Raley didn’t feel at all like playing cards, but he felt too grateful to Frank to refuse. His fellow-employee at Solar Minerals had been listening to Greene—as, inevitably, had everyone else on the plane—and he alone knew what anguish the real-estate man had been unconsciously creating. He’d probably got more and more uncomfortable and had decided to provide a distraction, any distraction.

Nice of him, Raley thought, as he and Ed spun their seats around so that they faced the other way. After all, he’d been promoted to the Ganymede desk over Frank’s head; another man in Frank’s position might have enjoyed hearing Ed sock it to him. Not Frank, he was no ghoul.

It was the usual game, with the usual four players. Bruce Robertson, the book illustrator, who sat on Frank Tyler’s left, brought his huge portfolio up off the floor and placed it table-wise on their knees. Frank opened a fresh deck and they cut for deal. Ed Greene won.