Bleck's magnetized boot slammed into the seat and left him overbalancing long enough for Hiller to scramble to his feet. The man appeared berserk with fear, except he had it channeled toward the destruction of what he assigned as its cause--the ship commander. No need to search; nothing serving as a weapon lay within reach. Taking the time to stoop and remove his boot meant suicide. Warily Bleck advanced with the retrieved boot upraised, clumsily limping on the other. Hiller backed until he felt the acceleration straps behind him on the bulkhead. There was no more backing after that. The last resort--something he did not relish doing--was broadcasting the crew his plight, pulling them from their stations. Anyway, by the time someone arrived--if that didn't faze the man, he would have to try ducking under the weapon and fighting it out. As Bleck paused to savor his ascendant position and measure the clobbering distance, Hiller started the first word of the announcement. His thinking was riding the crest of a wave of fear which threatened at any moment to break. And the first word was all he managed. What saved him was his grasp of the straps behind him. On low for movement, his boots would not have held. His grip had tightened instinctively the moment the ship lurched to the port side, a lurch so sharp he swung out from the bulkhead. His head and chest felt as if they would cave in under the compression. Wearing only one boot, the other demagnetized, Bleck probably was only beginning to analyze how he was dying when he sailed the length of the control room. His free boot dented the bulkhead and rang against the floor. The boot attached to his foot was hidden under the mixture of sodden clothes and shattered limbs that clung wetly to the bulkhead and began oozing toward the outside of the centrifuge. For the ship was now gyrating tightly, the stars parading endlessly past the ports. Coming out of shock, strangely, was what bothered Hiller most, the merry-go-rounding. His hands hurt, he noticed, so he released the needless grip on the straps. Dazedly he navigated to the control seat, sat down, and this time fastened his nylon safety bands and set his boots for high. * * * * * The concussion effects wouldn't blink out of his eyes and he stared blearily at the damage indicator. He also found it difficult keeping his eyes from Bleck's remains. "Fred? Fred!" It was Art's voice. Of course, he hadn't announced damage yet. How long had it been? "Report!" That's all the commander could get out. The crew responded weakly. The roll gave him time to locate the damage as a definite penetration in the fuel chambers, evidently by a large particle. The TV monitors showed no tanks dented, and the fine gauges indicated no leaks. One thing, though: the temperature of the tanks had skyrocketed.