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for him, rather than let it go to waste. But my own appetite was gone, and so most of the stew was lost, anyway.
    Others came by to express concern, but no one knew what to do. There were no contagious diseases in the Juclip; the bad days of personal contamination had been eliminated when man went out into the Solar System, with its natural quarantine. Only on septic Earth itself did the ancient maladies still flourish, and in occasional pockets in the major System cities. But there were degenerative maladies, such as the other Worry's declining liver. This one of Joe's was not familiar to any of us. We carried him back to his bunk in the ship where he lay unconscious.
    In the night I got sick myself, vomiting out the stew I had taken. I felt awful, hurting and weak all over. I told myself it was nerves, or a sympathetic reaction, and forced myself to relax, and I got through the night, improving.
    But I dreamed. I dreamed of a faceless man whom I realized was QYV, my private nemesis. He held out to me a goblet, urging me to drink, but I didn't want to because I knew he only wanted me dead. I spilled the goblet, and from it stew heaved out like my own vomit.
    Stew?
    I wrenched myself awake. “Poison!” I screamed.
    Rivers appeared beside my bunk. “What?”
    “Poisoned stew!” I said. “I ate some of Joe's stew, and it made me sick. It was served special for him—”
    “For several days,” Rivers said grimly. “Damn! I warned him not to stir up the animals!” He put his hand to Joe's forehead and froze.
    “Is he better?” I asked.
    “He's dead,” Rivers said.
    Numbly, I put my hand on Joe's face. It was cold. In a moment I was sure. He really was dead.
    The other workers gathered around, their faces blank with uncertainty and horror. Joe Hill had been their tacit leader, and now, just like that, he was gone. My face was as blank as theirs, anesthetized by the first stun of grief. In the past year I had grown unaccustomed to death; now I had lost my friend and could not quite encompass the horrendous significance.
    “Poison,” Rivers repeated. “I thought he was wrong, but I guess he wasn't. Not if they had to take him out like this.”
    “But who—?” I asked, my lips fumbling numbly over the words, my tongue feeling thick, my face a chilled mask.
    “The farmers,” he said, “who must've paid off the foreman. They murdered my brother.” He was silent a moment, staring at the dead man. There was no tear in Rivers's eye, no tremor to his chin; he simply stared. Feared of dyin'...
    Then he reached down and took Joe's long knife. He held the wicked blade before him like a holy relic, and he sang:
    I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night
    Alive as you and I...
    The rest of us joined in, singing Joe's song, mourning him. Rivers held the knife before him, pointing up, and marched to the ladder-tube. He climbed, one-handed. We followed.
    Says Joe, "What they forgot to kill
    Went on to organize..."
    As I climbed, my lethargy of horror converted to cold rage. I knew there was going to be mayhem.
    Vengeance...
    The bubble-guards were stirring themselves, hearing our song. They were armed with billy clubs, and evidently supposed a gesture of force would cow us. We tore into them, crazed, knocking them out.
    Then we wrecked the tally pavilion. We set fire to the dry potato plants, and smoke smudged through the bubble.
    The plantation owner's mansion was on the equator, between fields. We marched on it, singing. We outnumbered the defensive farm-guards five to one. In a moment the house was ablaze.
    The police arrived. They must have accelerated at ten gees to reach the bubble so soon—or they had been warned ahead. They burst upon the scene with gas bombs, and in moments it was over. I inhaled and fell on the ground, unconscious.
    There followed an interminable sequence of confinement in prison cells interspersed with official hearings. They kept me drugged most of the time, so I have no clear memory for detail. But I