The airlock door slid open. A short, stubble-bearded man clad in windsuit and transparalite helmet stomped in. He unscrewed the face plate of his helmet. His ears were too big and he looked like a fat doll. "We're ready for you, Mrs. Pierce," he said. Maggie nodded eagerly. She whirled back to Ben. "_Hurry!_ Get your helmet and suit on!" She spun back to the big-eared little man. "Cargo unloaded? All set for the flight home?" _Home_, Ben thought. _She calls a place she's never seen home._ "Cargo's unloaded." "No trouble with the I. B. I.? No investigation?" "Not yet. We're good for a few more hauls, I guess." * * * * * Ben slipped on his windsuit. He glanced at the control panel for the airlock. Yes, he could manipulate it easily. He contemplated the heat pistol at Simple Simon's hip. A tempting idea--but, no, he wanted no more of violence. Then he bit his lip. He cleared his mind of all thought. Simple Simon evidently had not noted the impulse that flicked his adrenals into pumping. The big-eared man stared strangely at Maggie. "Mrs. Pierce, before we go, I'd better tell you something." "You can do that on the rocket." Maggie stepped forward to seize her helmet. The man blocked her movement. "Mrs. Pierce, your husband--Jacob--was on the rocket." "What?" The girl released a broken, unbelieving little laugh. "Why, he wouldn't dare! That idiot, taking a chance like--" Alarm twisted her features. "He--he wasn't captured--" "No, he wasn't captured. And he took no chance, Mrs. Pierce." A moment of silence. Then she sucked in her breath. Ben understood. Words echoed in his mind: "Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth, not even to Hoover City--except dead." Maggie swayed. Ben and the big-eared little man jumped to her side, guided her back into the compartment used as a kitchen. They helped her to a chair. Ben turned on the fire beneath a coffee pot. Simple Simon watched silently. Her eyes empty and staring, Maggie asked, "How did it happen?" "We were heading into a clump of baby asteroids the size of peas. The radar warning was too slow. We couldn't pull away; we had to stop. The deceleration got him--crushed him. He lived for five minutes afterward." The little man produced a folded paper from a pocket of his suit. "Jacob said he had some ideas he had to get down on paper. God knows why, but during those five minutes he drew up this plan for improving our deceleration compensator." "Plans for--" she gasped. "He was a spaceman, Mrs. Pierce." The man handed her the paper. Ben caught a glimpse of scribbled circuits, relays, cathodes. "When he finished," the man continued, "he said to tell you that he loved you." She started to hand the paper back. The spaceman shook his head. "No, the original is yours. I've made copies for our own ships and for the brass in Hoover City." * * * * *