"Yeah, we drop in just three c.c. from this here tube," said Rocco as he expertly twirled the erlenmeyer flask and watched the color shoot past the methyl orange end-point. Whitemarsh was annoyed and said so.

"That's the sixth straight you've missed, and the acid comes out of the burette, not the tube; and you don't call the graduations c.c., you call them milliliters."

"Yeah? Well, here we call it a tube!"

"And why don't you go down to the end-point drop by drop?"

"Because the book don't say so! That's why! You technos make me sick. Here we do all the blasted work, and you try to tell us how to do what we've been doing for ten years!"

Rocco was beginning to work himself into one of his famous rages. His bull neck was beginning to redden; his eyes started to flash. His entire squat body started to quiver.

Whitemarsh wasn't impressed. Over at the atomic plant, Phobus's Quercus Mountain, he had bossed a pretty quarrelsome crew of isotope wranglers. He had never dodged a fight in his life. But this was in a chemical laboratory and it surprised him to hear the assistants talk back.

The only assistants he had ever known were clear-eyed youths taking a year away from their studies to recoup their tuition money and who tried to copy everything the chemists did. But Whitemarsh was new to the Interspatial Research Center on the Moon, and he still could not figure why the assistants acted as they did. So he waited.

Rocco banged the flask down on the stone bench, glared at Whitemarsh for an instant, and then rushed out of the Laboratory, muttering a few obscenities.

"Queer place this," mused Whitemarsh, filling up another flask and finishing the titration himself. "Here the helpers tell the chemists what to do and get mad if we ask them what they're doing."

He started to look over Rocco's notes and ruefully decided all the work would have to be done over again. He was interrupted when a girl opened the door. In the week he had been stationed at IRC, he had been introduced to so many scientists that he had forgotten most of the names, but he remembered all the girls. His former Atomic Plant at Quercus Mountain had had all too few for him not to appreciate them now. Miss Sally Chester was a statuesque chemist with long blonde hair and a luscious figure which she hid under a white lab robe. He managed to stammer some sort of greeting.

"Why Dr. Whitemarsh!" She seemed somewhat puzzled. "You're not actually working with your hands?"

"I sure am, unless we're both space struck. Why not?"

"Well, I suppose it's all right other places, here we let the Laboratorians do all the manual work. It's sort of their privilege."

"Yes, but their technique's lousy. I sat here this afternoon and watched that blow-hard Rocco muff six straight end-points in a row and when I asked him how come, he blew his top!"

She laughed at that. She sat down on the lab desk and said, "You're absolutely right. Antonio Rocco's color blind and always misses his Methyl Orange end-points. And he's been doing them for ten years. But it hurts his feelings to be criticized, you should have been more diplomatic. He's probably gone to complain to his boss!"

"His boss? Aren't we his bosses? On this sheet he's listed as my assistant."

"Actually yes. But traditionally the shop foreman is the leader of the Laboratorians. He certifies them to see that they know their work, signs their time cards and tells them when to take time off. Of course we outline the work they do, check their results and write reports from their data. Normally we come into the lab as little as possible."

"But Sally, how the hell do we know that their results are right? This mixed-up outfit is in the hands of a bunch of left-handed prima donnas who don't know Beilstein from Budweiser!"

She smiled again (and he thought of the ads for Stargleam toothpaste). "Let's go over to the Scientists' Snack Bar and get a cup of coffee, and I'll tell you a little about the history of this laboratory."

So he let her lead him out of the individual laboratory into the pastel blue corridor where they followed the spiral runways to the glass enclosed Snack Bar.

Here they sat on pale leather chairs and looked out over the expanse of the Central Laboratory. From where he sat, he could see a square mile of magnificent equipment: Serpentine condensers, enormous distillation columns, molecular stills, ultra-centrifuges, electron microscopes, all were spread out before him. Surrounding the central laboratory were the innumerable railings of the corridors leading to the individual offices. Upstairs and downstairs strolled scientists and Laboratorians respectively, all obviously contented. He turned to face Miss Chester who was lolling in the chair beside him. She had poured him a cup of coffee, given him a plate of rolls and was ready to talk.

She reminded him that in 2005 it was found necessary to build research laboratories on the Moon to avoid the guided meteorites which the Aliens had been hurling toward the Earth. Since there had also been a shortage of trained scientists, it was necessary to train apprentices to operate the complicated laboratory equipment ... to perform the operations without bothering themselves with the theory. The Laboratorians were needed and they did a good job running specification tests on all the equipment necessary for the interplanetary war. After the war, the Interspatial Corporation had made it the Central Research Laboratory, since this had been the largest aggregation of instruments ever gathered together, and in the ten intervening years, the numbers of college-trained scientists had increased almost ten-fold. As long as the Laboratorians confined their work to the equipment they were familiar with, they were unbeatable. To guide them they had the Book, as the Technical Manual of the Interspatial Corporation was known, and the Laboratorians followed its procedures to the letter.

"But they don't know why they're doing things," Whitemarsh interrupted. "The manual's been in need of revision for the last five years, and research workers don't use the same tests all the time!"

"Well that's right," admitted Sally without disagreement. "I usually have my particular laboratory instructions mimeotyped and bound in a little book. I've also got the instructions so fixed that if they do things wrong, I can catch them. And I've learned not to modify my instructions orally. That only confuses the men and results in chaos. With a little planning, you can get good work done, and if you don't mind humoring their whims a little, there's no reason why you can't get along with them."

Whitemarsh wasn't so sure. He had no objections to jollying his subordinates, but he did draw the line at sloppy lab technique. He escorted Miss Chester to her own office, thanked her for the briefing, and then started to worry on his own. He took the speed elevator up to Dr. Sheridan's office.

The Laboratory director was sympathetic. He looked at the broad-shouldered young giant, Dr. Whitemarsh, and reflected that this man was rated the most promising scientist the Interspatial Corporation ever had.

"You're damn right, Whitemarsh," he told the younger man, pushing him into a chair and offering him a cigarette. "I've been here three years and spent the first two fighting the system. Maybe the trouble goes back to our Board of Directors. They're all so proud of this shining Research Station on the Moon, that they hate to admit that anything's wrong. They've got the Laboratorians responsible to the Lunar Mines Service—and there it stands.

"So the only thing we can do is wait. Lo Presti the Master Mechanic is up for retirement next year and there's going to be a big organizational shake-up. Hold tight. After that we may have a free hand."

So Whitemarsh thanked him and bided his time. He released Rocco back to some other scientist and did his own laboratory work, even though the Laboratorian Council made a written protest. He also spent many hours in the excellent laboratory library, reading all the reports coming out of the Lunar Laboratory over the past ten years.

His discoveries amazed him. Theoretically the Lunar Lab had one of the best collections of scientific minds in the Solar System. Every Earth university was represented on its staff. New techniques and products had poured out of the Laboratory during the ten years of its existence, yet every one of these had been based on doubtful data. Certain things worried him. First, notes were kept in a very cavalier manner even by the most experienced scientists. Secondly, the younger chemists and physicists never had been exposed to any practical laboratory work after their student days, and consequently had no means of judging the technique of their assistants. Finally, the Laboratorians were apparently proud of their ignorance, displayed a contempt for "paper work" and were only too willing to fix their results if they thought they could get away with it....

He did not let his social development slide either. Lunarport was far more advanced culturally than the crude settlement on Phobus. Here Dr. Whitemarsh was able to have a luxurious apartment in the New Dome sector, could hear lectures and concerts, and could even indulge in winter sports such as skiing in the lava around the craters (protected of course by a heated suit and an oxygen mask.) He found Miss Chester a satisfactory companion for such endeavors, even though she spoke little of her private life or how she had avoided marriage in her twenty-five years. But he played a waiting game with her as well as with the lab job. He admitted to himself that a research chemist's life at Lunar Lab was a pleasant one, particularly if one didn't care how accurate one's results were. Unfortunately, the same quirk which had driven him into science also made him suspicious of all easy methods. He had never recovered from the shock of discovering that just because a reaction worked in a book, it did not necessarily have to do so in a laboratory.

Dr. Whitemarsh's promotion came within five rather than six months. There was some grumbling among the older scientists, but there was not much they could do about it. Kercheval, who had twelve years' service on the Moon, did not have his Ph.D. and did not care particularly for executive work. Neither did Sturtevant with a doctorate and ten years service. But others objected; even Miss Chester, long one of Whitemarsh's defenders, felt that the older men deserved at least the chance of refusal. (It never occurred to Whitemarsh that she might have had some ambitions of her own.)

He called the group leaders together for a conference the day after his appointment. He was now ensconced behind Sheridan's desk and was not yet accustomed to having a secretary. The leaders came in grim and resentful. He wasted no words.

"I'm going to reorganize the set-up to get the Laboratorians under us, whether they like it or not. This sloppy technical data and unsubstantiated findings is not my idea of a good lab—nor yours, I'm sure. It's up to you to show it during the next year. Meanwhile you've all been pushed up fifty dollars a month in salary. So long!"

His next step was to call on Lo Presti. The Master Mechanic's Office was outside the Lab Dome near the Shaft of Lunar Mine No. 1. The old man had been in the preliminary Selenium exploration party and never could forget the old days when he drove the men and robots to find the metal that paid for the cost of the Expedition. The President of the Home Office, Dr. Barker, had never forgotten either, and Lo Presti was always taken care of. The 200 Laboratorians probably caused him more headaches than the five thousand miners ever had, since a delegation visited him every day or so now that Dr. Whitemarsh was rumored in.

But the Lo Presti knew that times change too, and realized that the brawling space adventurer did not fit into a sleek world of test tubes and retorts. Ninety-five years old and arrogant as ever, he sat in his office and greeted Dr. Whitemarsh with a bonecrushing handshake. He offered a cigar and Whitemarsh thanked him, lighting a pipe instead.

"I hear from the boys you've been cracking down on them," he stated.

"No more than you would if you'd been there yourself. What would you do if a driller split a core?"

"Why I'd give the careless sap a clout that would wake him up. But the Laboratorians aren't drillers!"

"That's right, but that's the way some of them are muffing their work."

Lo Presti eyed him appraisingly. "Aren't you the same Whitemarsh who capped the crater on Phobus last year?"

"I sure am. And your Laboratorians are a bevy of Nice Nellies compared to that mutinous bunch of space rats I had with me."

"Well, maybe you're the man for the job at that. The guys don't put out anymore. Used to be I knew all the gang. I'd look around and see when they were goofing off. Now they're all such experts, I can't tell if they're loafing or just thinking." They both laughed at that. Whitemarsh thought it would be a good time to say: "I don't want to do anything to your boys for a while until I get my own gang straightened out!"

"Don't kid me, Doc," responded Lo Presti, "you know when I retire you're going to move in and crack down. Well I'm with you!"

So they parted friends.

Whitemarsh went back to his office in a happy mood. True, Miss Chester had been avoiding him lately and he had to drink coffee by himself but he now had the foremen on his side and the front office. Now was the chance to reform the laboratory.

His first bombshell was the requirement that all the junior chemists should take a qualifying examination. That really caused trouble in paradise. Apparently, all of the younger set had thrown away their books on graduation and remembered only their own specialties. Whitemarsh, from being a pleasant companion at the Snack Bar who discussed skiing and spaceball, had now become an ogre of the first water. The senior chemists chuckled, since they were exempt, and the Laboratorians guffawed aloud to see their harriers in turn harried. In any event there was frenzied activity in the month before the examination and the library staff did yeoman duty. And, no one had threatened to quit. At least almost no one. Whitemarsh was musingly staring out of his office's Plastoid window at the green eye of Earth when he heard a commotion outside in the ante-room. He looked out to see Sally Chester, and he sensed that their relationship was less than idyllic.

"Let me see that egotistical ass, Whitemarsh," she shouted at his secretary who cowered in silk clad finery as the white-coated Valkyrie charged by.

"Be calm," he advised her, placing himself strategically behind his desk.

"Calm," she screamed, "how can I be calm when an officious busybody starts getting drunk with power and acting like a Twentieth Century dictator? After all I've done for this stinking Lunar Lab, how come that I have to take an exam in freshman chemistry?"

"I thought you were exempt," began the chastened director.

"Sorry, your honor! Your order says five years at Lunarport. I've only been around this sweat shop for four years and six months. What are you going to do if I fail? Throw me out and I'm moving over to Campo Sano with every one of our trade secrets!"

"I'll get you exempted," he offered.

"What, and have the other chemists cry favoritism? Not on your life, you coffee-swilling Judas," she yelled. "And stop grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat!"

He did not answer. He was content only to admire her in her rage. Her usually mild face was flushed through the tan and her graceful hands were tightly clenched into fists that pounded on his desk.

"Answer me, you moron!" she shouted. Then she started to cry. Within one minute the seething Amazon had changed into a defenseless white-coated girl cowering in the visitor's chair, weeping bitterly. Whitemarsh approached and held her hand.

"Listen, Sally," he told her, "the only reason I was going to let you out of the test was because you know more chemistry than any of the scientists here. But go ahead and take the test; you'll get the highest grade!"

She brightened, "You think so?"

"Know it," he affirmed gallantly, "now, how about going to the Space Opera at the Symphorium tomorrow? Kluchesky is singing in Pomme de Terre."

She stiffened slightly and stood up. "Listen, Mr. Frank Whitemarsh! Privately you're not a bad guy. You even had potentialities. But you're a hell of a failure as a boss and the less I see of you, the happier I'll be. Good-bye!" And she was gone. Whitemarsh resumed his contemplation of the Earth with less interest.

The results of the examination might have been foretold. The intelligent and professionally alert junior chemists retained enough fundamentals to do well. The majority failed the questions on laboratory technique. Consequently Whitemarsh enlisted the aid of the older men to conduct a series of refresher lectures to bring up to date the scientific knowledge of those who failed. The Laboratorians were delighted with the spectacle presented by these lectures, and loved going home at night while erstwhile bosses sat listening to Dr. Sturtevant discuss "The Theory of Washing Precipitates", or to hear Dr. Whitemarsh talk on "Balancing the Redox equation." The Laboratorians' happiness lasted until one day in October.

That was the day that Lo Presti retired. The old man was given a small space ship by the Corporation and a space-time chronometer by the Laboratorians. Then he sorrowfully said farewell. The next day the Laboratorians were absorbed into Research.

Somebody had to plan for janitor service, figure where to place time cards, design new proficiency ratings and decide on such complex matters as where the Laboratorians were to hang their coats. All these services had been provided for by the miner's shop organization. Whitemarsh stayed late at night for a week arranging the new payroll plan and raising the salaries somewhat.

All this was handled, if not without incidents, at least without violence. Even the janitors and secretaries were now part of a team. All but Miss Chester. She had stopped speaking to Whitemarsh in the halls and had been seen in the company of a younger (and Whitemarsh felt) better looking physicist.

Then Whitemarsh dropped his second bombshell. The junior chemists were ordered to rate the Laboratorians for proficiency! Fresh from six months' study under such taskmasters as Whitemarsh and Kercheval, the chastened scientists were now able to interpret the antics of their tormentors of yesterday. An old tradition had fallen and the howls extended back to the Front Office on Earth.

For a change, Miss Chester did not object. She was evidently past all comment. She merely wrote out a list of the faults and virtues of all her assistants, rated them all Excellent and went back to her research.

But Rocco was tried and found incapable of running titrations. Harry Crowe was found to be weighing incorrectly, Zachary had been fixing his calculations for the last ten years and even faithful Bruno had been found to be adding 15 to all of his Iodine numbers in order to pass the specs easier.

It suddenly occurred to every one that all the laboratory's reports were based on incorrect data. All work stopped for a week until the scientists found what their assistants had been trying to do all along. And the results were a bit terrifying. When Kercheval found that an incorrectly calibrated reflectometer had negated five years of his pet project, he tore up his notebooks, flung them on the floor and stalked into Whitemarsh's office.

"Frank, I'm taking my back vacations and going to Venus to forget it all for about six months. And mind you, when I get back I don't want to see my present assistants. I'm going to start from scratch."

He left, banging the door.

Next was Sturtevant.

"Frank, we've got to get Interstellar Review to hold my last paper. I want to recheck the melting points of some of those diazo compounds."

Then came the young physicist, Dr. Slezak, who was rumored to be Miss Chester's present skiing companion. "Dr. Whitemarsh," he stammered, "I'm not sure about the data on my last report."

"Didn't you take it all yourself?"

"Yes, but I used some of Kercheval's data for my fundamental calculations and, if that's wrong, all my conclusions may not be valid."

"Stop worrying," Whitemarsh told him. "When Kercheval recalculates his values, you can revise your own report. As long as your own work is right, you have nothing to worry about."

The young man left, nervously wringing his hands. Whitemarsh couldn't see what Sally saw in him. He figured she ought to be along by now.

She was.

"I told you so," Sally said theatrically. "You've got the whole lab mistrusting each other. All the chemists are quarreling like mad and the Laboratorians all look like whipped dogs. You've pulled the chair right out from under everything and you sit here gloating."

"Relax, Sally," he told her. "They're just growing pains. Take it easy and ride out the storm.... Now, how about tearing over to Lunar 7 to see the crucial Spaceball series between the Space Rangers and the Callisto Satellites?"

She looked horrified. "I'm afraid you don't take hints very well. I'm not interested in going anywhere with you. Actually, I'm going with Jack Slezak to see 'Nova of the Leprous Soul', and I might suggest a fit subject."

She flounced out again and Whitemarsh felt lost. He tried to cheer himself with a book on Hyper Plutonium Elements.

The transition took longer than Whitemarsh had bargained for. After the Laboratorians were re-educated, and a tiresome process it was, chemists went over the notebooks to look for inaccuracies, doubtful data was examined, all microfilms had to be edited and corrected; and they found that most of the chemicals developed at the laboratory in the past decade had been founded on doubtful data. But since all of them had passed the Development Group, Whitemarsh didn't think it was wise to try to recall them. But new products scheduled for release were re-examined and retested after the fundamental work on them was checked.

Finally the problems were unscrambled and the laboratory began to run smoothly again. The research projects were reestablished and the work started out anew. Frayed tempers were soothed and the scientists finally got around to trusting each others' results again. The Laboratorians were now carefully but tactfully watched by the junior chemists who, in turn, were spending more time in the laboratories and less in their offices.

When the new, sound results started grinding forth, Whitemarsh permitted himself a sigh of relief. Lunar Lab had lost its individuality, he admitted, even though the easy-going camaraderie he had noticed when he first came was also gone. The results of Lunar Research Lab of Interspatial were now as reliable as those of the Campo Sano and Roque laboratories back on Earth.

But it had been a hard fight. None of the chemists ever stopped around his office any more for small talk about sports and politics. His secretary brought him coffee in his sanctum sanctorum and he did not find himself wandering around the laboratory as he had formerly done. When he did, there was usually a restrained silence and a suspicious neatness. Miss Chester was apparently irrevocably lost and there were rumors of an engagement with the brilliant Dr. Slezak. Though he had won the day, he had lost something too. The Lab was now able to turn out results, but Frank Whitemarsh had paid a personal price for its new efficiency.

Almost a year after taking over as Research Director, Sheridan, now a Vice President, brought him some news. "Get ready to pack, Frank," he told the younger man as they sat and smoked in the director's office watching the clouds moving over the Earth.

"The Front Office like what I did?" asked Whitemarsh puffing on his pipe.

"Well." There was a slight pause. "All the scientists on the board are behind you to a man. But the business men, the advertising boys and accountants, well ... you know how they are."

"What's eating them?"

"The lab didn't release any new products this past year. Development and even Advertising are pretty much slowed down."

"That's right. We've got some good products about ready, but we're making a final check before release. Don't you think we sent out a lot of junk before?"

"We sure did, even in my time though I tried to stop it. But the development boys want something, anything."

"Well?" asked Whitemarsh.

"So they'd probably rather run the risk of getting something bad than nothing at all."

"They won't!"

"That's right, they never will again. Now, I know that the products you have ready are going to be good and I'm not worried about them. All we have to do is keep the business geniuses out of our hair for another six months."

"And?"

"So we're kicking you upstairs. It's a good job, don't worry about that, at three times your director's salary."

"What if I quit?"

"Don't be that silly."

"What's the other job?"

"Works Manager at Quercus Mountain on Phobus. Sole boss of the biggest Isotope Works in the Solar System. You'll have 50,000 men under you and have a free hand at starting any kind of laboratory you want."

"No Laboratorians?"

"Right. You can start out from scratch and make the kind of lab you've always dreamed of. Here we're thinking of pushing up Kercheval if it's all right with you, you always rated him highly. It's just like changing Spaceball managers. We all know the Space Sox won the pennant last year on the team developed by Kanter even though Balhiser was manager. These wolves will keep off our tail until the new products start coming through and then we'll say we knew it all along."

"You've got me half convinced not to quit," said Whitemarsh quietly.

"Now listen Frank," came back Sheridan just as seriously, "you're too good a man to waste. Now take your promotion like a nice boy and keep in line."

"I still think I did a good job here."

"So do I, but the Board of Directors can't forgive those retractions, even though you and I know they're necessary. They don't know what scientific truth and pride are. Within ten years, on the foundations you laid, we'll have the best research record in the country...."

After Sheridan had left, Whitemarsh cast a last look at his former domain. He called Kercheval in to give him the news and then tell him to keep quiet until verified. Then he decided to take a last tour around the laboratories. He finally found himself up at the Snack Bar and his eyes were taking the same look over the Laboratory that they had done two years before. The view looked about the same. He had supervised the installation of a new Matter Probe over in the front center and he was responsible for the Atom Analyzer, but these were only minor changes.

The major change, he thought bitterly, is that no one speaks to me unless spoken to—I've become a pariah. Never tamper with the status quo, it disturbs too many people. It's a very lonely job.

There was no one else in the Snack Bar. At least, almost no one else. He heard a discreet cough behind him. He turned and found Miss Chester seated behind him. She had her legs crossed, a cup of coffee in one hand and the Space News Want-Ads in the other.

"Hello, Napoleon," she greeted him. "Have you just been surveying your empire? Did you see the stern men of science jumping through the hoops out there? Can you remember the happy place this was a year ago when you came? Then the Laboratorians took pride in their work; now they're flunkies for the green kids fresh from Alma Mater!"

"Stop it, Sally," he told her. "You're not too far wrong on that Napoleon business. I'm taking off for my new St. Helena, Quercus Mountain on Phobus."

"Quercus Mountain? That's a big place. Lab Director?"

"No. Works Manager."

"Heaven help the poor Atomic workers!"

"Don't be that harsh. Dammit! Sally, maybe I am a Napoleon, but scientific accuracy is too important to play fast and loose with, the way they were around here. You know it. You're the only one who didn't relax that vigilance—who saw to it that everything you turned out was without error. I know now that I forgot the human equation—that I was so eager for errorless research that I trod pretty roughshod over a lot of people. But you're guilty too, you know, you had the secret—you managed to balance the equation when everyone else here didn't. Why didn't you help me? Sure, you came in and ranted and raved at me—called me all sorts of names, but you didn't help me, you didn't try to show me the way."

"I—"

"Let me finish," he interrupted her. "I love you, you know—have for a long, long, time. I still need help, Sally. I don't want to keep playing Napoleon and going into exile over and over again. A bigger job with more men under me isn't the answer. When a man is lonely it makes him hard and cruel in circumstances like that. I made all of you here relearn scientific facts, I need to relearn the humanities...." He paused for a moment. "Sally, will you teach me?"

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and a catch in her throat made the words husky and half-whispered. "I wanted to help—I love you too—but I thought you were arrogant and didn't need me—" She swallowed, controlling a sob. "I'll make it up to you, darling. You won't be alone again—on Phobus or anywhere else in the galaxy."