The problem with people following their dreams is that one man's dream is another man's nightmare, and there are so many, many dreams....

"So, International Chemicals won't sell me the Oxygen, at any price, your company's final word?" Gregory St. Croix stood, apparently unconcerned, coldly watching the agent's wristwatch flash in the light streaming through the tenth story window. He suppressed a rising desire to reach out and throttle the dullard. Instead, he stood relaxed, left hand held behind his fashionable suit coat.

The agent looked up, with a half-apologetic smile. "I am sorry, Mr. Croix. The company policy is not to sell to direct competitors. I understand that the product is to be processed, and won't be resold as a gas. I had thought it might make a difference to my director, but in the end, the decision was to uphold the corporate policy. Believe me, I wish I could. The amount you specified would have made my commission quota for the quarter."

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Having delivered the glib policy of his masters, the lackey occupied himself with rearranging the paper litter on his desk.

It was not that Gregory's corporation couldn't obtain its own gas. In the end, it was all about timing. His client had a deadline. St. Croix Mining and Refining Corp needed to make that deadline, would make that deadline. Gregory balled the hand at his back into a tight fist.

Forcing out a few terse polite noises, he held in his rising anger and stiffly stalked from the office. He had made his gesture. Riding down the ultra modern elevator, Gregory mused. I tried to work with them, to do things properly. They've had their chance.

Stepping into the street,Gregory took a deep breath of old Earth's air, and reentered the waiting limo. There will be less of that around, after today, he thought.

"Entermo Spaceport. Notify Captain Havilland we will be lifting off as soon as I arrive. We've work to do."