Subawarely the commander realized his thinking was punchy. The impacts of missiles against the heating ship's hull constituted a slowly fading pattern of noise and pressure and pain which he was observing objectively, almost amusedly. When he attempted to read the damage indicator or communicate with the crew, the effort became immense and the discomfort great. So much easier to remain contemplative about it. No doubt this was the condition of the crew. After so much beating, the organic function can tolerate no more. Oversight Number Three. The commander was aware sufficiently to hope Art Eastburn kept the air cooler circulating. He had already assumed, since the crew was suited in, that the engineer had cut off the fresh air supply. They didn't have to lose it all, just most of it, enough to suffocate somewhere in space. That hunch? Seemed a hunch fitted in there somewhere. Was it really important? Nothing seemed important except escaping the punishment the particles of the Inner Asteroid Belt were inflicting on the near-senseless bodies in the spinning ship. His thought processes alternately raced and then froze in a semi-conscious sleep. Between impacts rationality awoke in brief segments of contemplative continuity and slowed when another concussion shuddered the ship. And soon there was no rationality but fantasies rooted in present trauma.... Starlight seeped through the punctured hull around the control chamber. The air supply had long since whistled into space. What ship atmosphere that was salvaged had been piped into the suits and rationed among the men. They had circumnavigated the Inner Belt after plotting a course back to Earth. Hollender's computations presented them with a rough chance of making it before the air would no longer maintain their life processes. But it had not worked out. The Earth was yet a bright star in the front ports when the coughing began, when the function of respiration became painful labor. Some were already choosing the quick way out. Hollender had entered the control room, waved a hand in salute, and unzipped his suit, even as Hiller watched. The instant freezing from the space-filled ship bloated the body slightly, but otherwise there was little difference. Hollender stood statuesquely, coldly rigid, clamped solidly by his boots. Art Eastburn arrived next, unsmiling. The two men regarded each other, chests heaving, for an endless moment. The mechanical engineer reached for his suit zipper. "Art, hold on! Not yet, Art, not yet!" "Not what, Fred? Come out of it, man!" Eastburn was standing over him, speaking against the plastiglas of Hiller's visor. He sat before the control board, still cinched in his seat. The mechanical engineer wore no suit and he was smiling. "We're through," his friend was saying. "We made it, Fred." * * * * * The ship commander shook his head. The words were supposed to mean something vital. He played them back in his mind.