Throdahl has enlisted in the conspiracy of silence. At long last he has exhausted his stock of jocular denials of loneliness and fear.

Chief Nicastro clings to a structural member, his eyes closed tight. He remains convinced of his fate.

Laramie's insult bag has come up empty.

The computermen mutter on, making magic passes over their fetish, communing with the gods of technology.

Berberian, Carmon, the others—they wait.

In his gentle way, Fisherman is trying to intercede with his god, on behalf of his friends. He prays quietly but often.

Only Fearless is living up to his name and the reputation of the Climbers.

That cat is the all-time grand champion. He's done more Climber time than any other creature living. It bores him now. He wriggles onto his back, athwart my lap, thrusting his legs into the air, letting his head dangle off my leg. From his half-open mouth he trails a soft, gurgling feline snore.

A complete fatalist, Fearless Fred. Que serd, serd. Till it does, he'll take a nap.

What's happening below? Yanevich has sealed the hatches.

"Contact," Fisherman says. "Bearing..."

"Drop hyper. Secure drives, Mr. Varese."

I'm becoming a fatalist myself. I can do nothing to control my future. It's just a ride I have to take, hoping the luck will go my way.

What point to the Old Man's tactics? The ship has gone her limit. Soon we won't be able to take hyper for fear of not having enough fuel to make it home.

"Commander, we've gone below one percent available hydrogen," Varese reports. "It'll take a lot to fire her up again."

"Understood. Proceed as instructed, Mr. Varese."

The Engineering Officer no longer argues. He's given up. The Commander won't be swayed.

Even he has to admit that we're past the point where protecting a reserve makes sense.

What's the meaning of one percent? Fuel for two days at maximum economy? After that, what? How long till emergency and accumulator power fail? Fisherman's history suggests weeks. But his was a healthy vessel before being stricken.

The whole business has become disgusting. There has to be a limit!

The only real limit is human endurance, my friend.

Berberian and Fisherman warble contacts like songbirds in mating season. Galactic clusters of red and green blips fill the display tank.

"Goddamned!" Throdahl swears. "So goddamned close----- We could walk it from here." If they'd let us.

I glance at the tank again. There are gold pips in there now. We've reached the asteroid belt. One of the asteroid belts, I should say. Canaan's system has two. The inner belt is slightly more than one A.U. outside Canaan's orbit. The other lies in roughly the same range as that of Sol System.

Rose has to respond to his friend. "We're going to get mugged first."

"Can the chatter!" the Commander snaps. "Throdahl, signal Command. Homecoming. Idents. Status Red." He turns to Westhause. "Astrogator, into the belt. Find an emergency base."

The signal will tell Command we're here and hurting, that we need help in a hurry.

I toyjvith the viewscreen, locate Canaan. The camera is erratic. Hard to keep in train. The planet shows as a fingernail clipping of silver. TerVeen is invisible. Maybe it's behind its primary. The larger moon is a needle scratch near the planet's invisible limb.

A lousy 170 million klicks.

I don't think we're going to make it.

Throdahl, who has been talking with Westhause, says, "Commander, got a response on station Alpha Niner Zero. Automatic signal. Looks like they've pulled the live crew."

"Mr. Westhause?"

"It's two million klicks off our base course, Commander."

"Rose, see what it can do besides life support."

Rose has the data up already. "Emergency water and food stores, Commander. Enough till this blows over if it's fully provisioned."

"This" is my earlier and correct guess. Rathgeber or the mauling of the convoy was the last straw.

The gentlemen of the other firm have halted their assault on the Inner Worlds till they carve this Canaan-cancer out of their backtrail.

The camera shows the negotiations at a fiery pitch. Canaan's moon is taking a pounding. Maybe staying out here would be smart.

In the grand view the situation represents a glorious milestone. We've stopped their inward charge at last. They'll have to commit an inordinate proportion of their power to follow through here.

Tannian's Festung Canaan will be a hard-shelled nut. Maybe hard enough to alter the momentum of the game.

Tannian has gotten his way at last.

Knowing I'm on the fringe of a desperate and historic battle isn't comforting. I can't get excited about sacrificing myself for the Inner Worlds.

A wise man once said it's hard to concentrate on draining the swamp when you're up to your ass in alligators.

Tannian will be a hero's hero. It won't matter if he wins or dies a martyr. He'll be immune to the darts of truth. What I write won't touch him. No one will care.

"Anything from Command?' the Old Man demands. There's been ample time for a response.

Throdahl raises a hand placatingly. He's listening to something. His expression sours.

"Commander... all they did was acknowledge receipt. No reply."

"Damn them." There's little heat in the Old Man's curse. He doesn't sound surprised. "Make for Rescue Alpha Niner Zero."

Thrust follows almost instantaneously, lasts only a few seconds. Westhause is taking the slow road. We don't dare leave too plain a neutrino trail.

Word filters through the ship. We'll have something to eat soon.

Eight hours gone. After one brief hyper translation, there've been but a few slight nudges with thrusters, sliding round asteroids. Now Westhause cuts loose a long burn. He has to reduce our inherent velocity.

The Commander tells me, "Keep a sharp watch for a flashing red-and-white light. We may not recognize the rock on radar."

"Range one hundred thousand, Commander," Throdahl says.

"Very well. How long, Mr. Westhause?"

"Two hours till my next burn, Commander. Maybe three altogether."

"Uhm. Proceed."

I'm salivating already. Damn, this sneaking is slow work.

Burn complete. Closing with the Rescue station. I catch occasional glimpses of its lights, activated by our signals. "Commander, that rock is tumbling."

"Damn." He leans over my shoulder. "So it is. Not too fast, though. Time it."

We ease closer. The asteroid isn't tumbling as fast as I thought. It has several lights. A

rotation takes about a minute. According to Berberian it's slightly over two hundred meters in distance. It's wobbling slightly as it rolls.

Closer still, I discover the reason for its odd behavior. "Range?" I demand.

"What?" Yanevich asks.

I have my magnification set at max. "How far to the damned asteroid?"

Yanevich snaps, "Berberian. Range?"

"Nine hundred thirty kilometers, sir."

The First Watch Officer moves round behind me. "What's the matter?"

"Something wrong." I tap a big lump as it rolls into view. Yanevich frowns thoughtfully. The Commander joins us. I ask, "Can we bounce a low-power beam off that?"

The Old Man says, "Berberian. Shift to pulse. Chief Can-zoneri. Link with radar. I want an albedo.

Mr. Westhause, dead stop if you please." He leaves us, monkeys into the inner circle.

We're three hundred kilometers closer before Westhause gets all weigh off. The men exchange tense glances. Fisherman asks, "What is it, sir?"

"Can't tell for sure. Look like there's a ship on the rock."

The Commander joins me. He says, "Radar albedo isn't distinct. A dead ship doesn't show much different from a nickle-iron asteroid." He stares into the screen. It shouts no answers. "Wish we had flares."

Yanevich says, "If they were going to shoot, we'd have heard from them by now."