“And if we still get significant deflection, drag on our suits and crawl back here — maybe a dozen times? No!”

“Why, that was how we did it before.”

“I’m getting awfully hungry,” said Sverdlov. Suddenly it flared out of him. “I’m sick of it! I’m sick of being cooped up in my own stink, and yours, I’m sick of the same stupid faces and the same stupid remarks, yes, the same stars even! I’ve had enough! Get on back inside. I’ll stay here and watch under acceleration. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be right on the spot to fix it.”

“But—”

Nakamura’s voice crackled above the mutter of stars. “What are you thinking of, Engineer Sverdlov? Two gravities would pull you off the ship! And we’re not maneuverable enough to rescue you.”

“This life line is tested for two thousand kilos,” said the Krasnan. “It’s standard procedure to make direct high-acceleration checks on the blast.”

“By automatic instruments.”

“Which we haven’t got. Do you know the system is fully adjusted? Are you so sure there isn’t some small cumulative effect, so the thing will quit on you one day when you need it the most?”

Maclaren’s tone joined in, dry and somehow remote: “This is a curious time to think about that.”

“I am the engineer,” said Sverdlov stiffly. “Read the ship’s articles again.”

“Well,” said Nakamura. “Well, but—”

“It would save time,” said Ryerson. “Maybe even a few days’ worth of time, if the coils really are badly maladjusted.”

“Thanks, Dave,” said Sverdlov clumsily.

“Well,” said Nakamura, “you have the authority, of course. But I ask you again—”

“All I ask of you is two gravities’ worth of oof for a few seconds,” interrupted Sverdlov. “When I’m satisfied this ring will function properly, so we won’t have to be forever making stops like this, I’ll come inside.”

He hooked his legs about the framework and began resetting the instruments clamped onto it. “Get on back, Dave,” he said.

“Why… I thought I would—”

“No need to.”

“But there is! You can’t read every dial simultaneously, and if there’s work to be done you’ll need help.”

“I’ll call you if I want you. Give me your tool belt.” Sverdlov took it from reluctant hands and buckled it around himself. “There is a certain amount of hazard involved, Dave. If I should be unlucky, you’re the closest approximation to an engineer the ship will have. She can’t spare both of us.”

“But why take any risk at all?”

“Because I’m sick of being here! Because I’ve got to fight back at that black coal or start howling! Now get inside!”

As he watched the other blocky shape depart him, Sverdlov thought: I am actually not being very rational, am I now? But who could expect it, a hundred light-years from the sun?

As he made ready, he puzzled over what had driven him. There was the need to wrestle something tangible; and surely to balance on this skeleton of metal, under twice his normal weight, was a challenge. Beyond that, less important really, was the logic of it: the reasons he had given were sound enough as far as they went, and you could starve to death while proceeding at the pace of caution.

And below it all, he thought, was a dark wish he did not understand. Li-Tsung of Krasna would have told him to live at all costs, sacrifice all the others, to save himself for his planet and the Fellowship. But there were limits. You didn’t have to accept Dave’s Calvinism — though its unmerciful God seemed very near this dead star — to swallow the truth that some things were more important than survival. Than even the survival of a cause.

Maybe I’m trying to find out what those things are, he thought confusedly.

He crawled “up” till his feet were braced on a cross-member, with the terminal accelerator ring by his right ankle but the electroprober dial conveniently near his faceplate. His right hand gripped a vernier wrench, his left drew taut the life line. “Stand by for blast,” he said into his radio. “Build up to two gees over a one-minute period, then hold it till I say cut.”

Nothing happened for a while except the crawling of the constellations as gyros brought the ship around. Good boy, Seiichi! He’d get some escape distance out of even a test blast. “Stand by,” it said in Sverdlov’s earphones. And his weight came back to him, until he felt an exultant straining in the muscles of shoulder and arm and leg and belly; until his heart thudded loud enough to drown out the thin crackling talk of the stars.

The hull was above him now, a giant sphere upheld on twin derricks. Down the middle of each derrick guttered a ghostly blue light, and sparks writhed and fountained at junction points. The constellations shone chill through the electric discharge.

Inefficient, thought Sverdlov. The result of reconstruction without adequate instruments. But it’s pretty. Like festival fireworks. He remembered a pyrotechnic display once, when he was small. His mother had taken him. They sat on a hired catamaran and watched wonder explode softly above the lake.

“Uh,” grunted Sverdlov. He narrowed his eyes to peer at the detector dial. There certainly was a significant deflection yet, when whole grams of matter were being thrown out every second. It didn’t heat up the ring very much, maybe not enough to notice; but negatrons plowed through terrene electron shells, into terrene nuclei, and atoms were destroyed. Presently there would be crystal deformation, fatigue, ultimate failure. He reported his findings and added with a sense of earned boasting: “I was right. This had to be done.”

“I shall halt blast, then. Stand by.”

Weightlessness came back. Sverdlov reached out delicately with his wrench, nipped a coil nut, and loosened the bolt. He shifted the coil itself backward. “I’ll have this fixed in a minute. There! Now give me three gees for about thirty seconds, just to make sure.”

“Three? Are you certain you—”

“I am. Fire!”

It came to Sverdlov that this was another way a man might serve his planet: just by being the right kind of man. Maybe a better way than planning the extinction of people who happened to live somewhere else. Oh, come off it, he told himself, next thing you’ll be teaching a Humane League kindergarten.

The force on him climbed, and his muscles rejoiced in it. At three gees there was no deflection against the ring or was there? He peered closer. His right hand, weighted by the tool it still bore, slipped from the member on which it had been leaning. Sverdlov was thrown off balance. He flung both arms wide, instinctively trying not to fall. His right went between the field coils and into the negatron stream.

Fire sprouted.

Nakamura cut the drive. Sverdlov hung free, staring by starlight at his arm. The blast had sliced it across as cleanly as an industrial torch. Blood and water vapor rushed out and froze in a small cloud, pale among the nebulae.

There was no pain. Not yet. But his eardrums popped as pressure fell. “Engine room!” he snapped. A part of him stood aside and marveled at his own mind. What a survival machine, when the need came! “Emergency! Drop total accelerator voltage to one thousand. Give me about ten amps down the tube. Quick!”

He felt no weight, such a blast didn’t exert enough push on the hull to move it appreciably. He thrust his arm back into the ion stream. Pain did come now, but in his head, as the eardrums ruptured. One minute more and he would have the bends. The gas of antiprotons roared without noise around the stump of his wrist. Steel melted. Sverdlov prodded with a hacksaw gripped in his left hand, trying to seal the spacesuit arm shut.

He seemed far away from everything. Night ate at his brain. He asked himself once in wonderment: “Was I planning to do this to other men?”

When he thought the sleeve was sealed, he withdrew it. “Cut blast,” he whispered. “Come and get me.” His airtanks fed him oxygen, pressure climbed again inside the suit. It was good to float at the end of a life line, breathing. Until he began to strangle on his own blood. Then he gave up and accepted the gift of darkness.