Brad Lilling pretended to be engrossed in the illuminated logtape that flowed across his desk top under translucent plastic. Actually, he was acutely conscious of the footfalls coming toward him across the wide leadstone floor from the gauge bank.
“No,” he groaned inwardly. “Not again.” And then, “If he doesn’t lay off me, I swear I’ll turn him in to the Espee.”
But Brad knew he would not report Starl Kozmer to the Security Police. He knew the strength of the tie that binds all atomicians in a brotherhood rooted in the unremitting peril of their craft.
Kozmer wore the badge of the brotherhood where all could see—the purple ray burn that blanked out the right side of his face, which left only a lashless slit where an eye should be and cut a lavendar swath through his white mane. Brad him
