"We have separation and ignition on Ops and Engineering, Commander." How very perceptive.

Head twist. Glare at the tank. Where are those missiles? Can't tell. The antennae were mounted on the torus. We're flying blind....

Thrust ends. The plug-ups break it up around the Weapons bulkhead. I feel lightheaded-----Freefall.

No artificial gravity.

The Commander drifts out of his seat.

The serials are continuing in the rest of the ship. Ship's Services will be last to separate. The din there must be murderous. Charlie, I hope you make it. Kriegshauser, you never did get back with that name.

"We have separation on Weapons, Commander."

I still have one outside camera. I watch the rockets flame. Jump the magnification. There's the torus, wobbling, spinning, dwindling rapidly, illuminated by the rockets. It shows silvery patches where beams licked it.

The Climber slides out of view. A crescent of Canaan appears. We're tumbling toward the dawn. I hope Rescue can handle the end-over-end.

The sun rises. It's brilliant, majestic, as it crawls over the curve of the world we've lusted after so long.

Where are those missiles?

There's something special about a mother star materializing from behind a daughter planet. It fills me with the awe of creation. I feel it now, even though death bays at my heels. This, and perhaps clouds, are the supreme arguments for the existence of a Creator.

Time to check the torus again.

My God! A new sun!...

Berberian says, "The torus. First missile took the torus." His voice is a toad's croak.

Well, naturally. The torus is the biggest target. It'll be over in seconds.... Sighs all through the compartment. A diminution in tension. We have a fifty-fifty chance now.

"Hey! Torus again!" Berberian shouts. "Goddamned second fucking missile took the torus, too!"

"Let's have proper reports," the Commander admonishes.

I could howl for joy.

And yet... there's that third bird, lagging the other two. Big black monster with my name engraved on its teeth.

Got to get Canaan on screen. I want a world in my eyes when I go.

What a sweet world it is. What a beautiful world. I've never wanted any woman, not even Sharon, as badly as I want that world.

"Three won't target on the torus," Laramie says.

"Shut your cocksucker, will you?" Rose snarls.

Piniaz will try with his one laser, but it won't be enough. He's failed twice already, hasn't he?

Nevertheless, the Old Man has won. There will be survivors.

If Fisherman's Devil exists, his favorite torture must be guilt. Three more compartments out there, and me here hoping the hammer falls on one of them. Part of me is utterly without shame.

A flash brightens my screen. "Gone." I stammer getting the word out.

"Who?" a voice demands.

"Berberian? Throdahl?" the Commander asks.

Seconds pass. I scribble frantically, then wait, pencil poised. Throdahl says, "Commander, I can't get a response from Ship's Services."

"Ah, Charlie. Shit."

"That's it, men," the Commander says. "Secure. Mr. Yanevich, take charge." He pauses to knock ashes from his pipe. "Emergency watch bill."

Kriegshauser. Vossbrink. Charlie Bradley. Light. Shingle-decker. Tahtaburun. All gone? No. Some were in Engineering.

Poor Charlie. He had a future. Crapped out first patrol. Welcome to the Climbers, kid.

I'll mourn him. I liked him.

Wonder if Kriegshauser made it. He hated being away from his little galley.

Well, if he didn't, he doesn't have a problem anymore. Too bad I couldn't help him.

Look on the positive side. They didn't hurt. They never knew what hit them.

Nothing to do now but wait for Rescue. Wait and wonder if we'll ever hear their approach signal.

Going to find an empty hammock. Probably won't sleep, but I need a change. Need to get away.

Chatter down below. "Think they'll throw anything else?" That's Cannon. "We're sitting ducks."

"Don't worry your pointy head, Patriot," Nicastro says. "We won't know it when it hits us." The Chief refuses to believe there's a tomorrow.

"How long we got to wait?" Berberian asks.

"Throdahl? Anything?"

"Sorry, Chief."

"As long as we have to, Berberian."

Berberian says, "Thro, get on the horn and tell them to get their asses out here."

"I did, Berberian. What the fuck more you want?"

"Pussy. Pussy and more pussy. Whole platooons of pussy. Just line them up and I'll lay them down."

I was right. Can't sleep. I roll,. Jown through the tangle.

The Commander is seated near Westhause, writing something. He rises, struggles up to his cabin.

Even in free-fall he finds the climb hard work. He's burned out. Nothing left.

You got us home, old friend. Hang on to that.

"Let's get on it here," the First Watch Officer snaps. "We're supposed to conserve power." His tone is relaxed, confident. The tone of a Commander. He's come along. "Carmon, secure the tank.

Mr. Westhause, Chief Canzoneri, lock your memory banks and close up shop. You too, Junghaus.

Berberian, Throdahl, stay warm. Might need to help Rescue. Laramie, secure the cooler and atmosphere scrubber. Going to get cold anyway. Give us a spritz of oxygen while you're at it.

Chief Nicastro, secure some lights. If you don't have something to do, crap out."

Men lying still use fewer calories and perspire less. The First Watch Officer is gentling us into the starvation leg of our journey.

"Hope to fuck they hurry," Throdahl grumbles. He keeps tinkering, trying to find something on the Rescue band. "I'm hungry, thirsty, horny, and filthy. Not necessarily in that order."

"I'll buy that," Rose says.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"That you're filthy, Thro. Right down to the stinking core."

The pace picks up. Laramie joins in. Berberian contributes the occasional quip. They're feeling better.

For me the waiting is intolerable. We're too near home.

Laramie moans something about he's going to perish if he don't get some pussy in the next twentyfour hours.

"You'll last," Fisherman snarls. The men look at nun, mouths open. No. He's not joining the game.

The cut-low session recesses. Junghaus's shipmates aren't insensitive.

"At least you had water," the usually silent Scarlatella grumbles. I roll slightly, peer through the tangled piping. Lubomir Scarlatella is a strange one. He's Electronic Technician for Chief Canzoneri. I don't think he's said a hundred words all patrol. Silent, proficient, imperturbable.

You hardly notice him. Now hysteria edges his voice.

"Until it was a choice between using power to recycle it or to heat the ship." A sublime calm visibly overtakes Junghaus. In a gentle voice he begins quoting scripture. Nobody shuts him up.

I slept. I don't believe it. Twelve hours. Might have gone longer if Zia hadn't wanted the hammock. Clambered down to my old seat. Listened to the halfhearted murmur of the men. Mostly it was speculation about what's happened to our friends in the other compartments.

Hour fourteen. Thro lets out a whoop. "Here they are!"

"Here who are?" Mr. Westhause asks. He has the watch, such as it is.

"Rescue... goddamned. They're going after Weapons. The bastards." He slugs his console angrily.

'Take it easy. We'll get our turn."

The sons of bitches!

You don't know how selfish you can be till you're in a survival situation seeing someone else being saved first. Forty-two minutes, every one spent hating and cursing Piniaz's cutthroats.

Now our turn. With Rescue cursing us as heartily as we cursed Weapons. It takes them three hours to get the spin off the compartment.

"Not going to tow us," Throdahl announces. "They're going to take us out right here. Going to scab a tube to the top hatch."