He rolled up a strip of white cloth. He was irritated by the insistent feeling that he needed antiseptics he didn't have. He worked at the recalcitrant opening in the cloth of the flight suit and packed the wound with nylon. Then he worked more nylon about and over the packing to make a firm pad. He tore long strips to put around Furness' body to hold the packing fast and tied them tightly. It was awkward to work where there was no weight. It seemed unreal to attempt the preposterous where there was no sound. He worked swiftly. Suddenly there was a redness in the light reflected all about the cabin from the sunshine that came in the ports. He jerked up his head, thinking foolishly of fire. Then he saw the sun. It lay beyond a vast curved barrier that shut off all the light of all the stars. The sun was in the act of descending, to be eclipsed by the edge of Earth, and its light came through hundreds of miles of thick air which turned it from a burning golden glare to flame-red, and then crimson, and then ruby-red as he stared. Then its rim was blanked out and it slid swiftly down to extinction. The light went from gold to carmine to ruby and the sun was blotted out in less than ten seconds. Then the ship traveled through purest night. The cosmos outside its ports was sharply divided. There was a hemisphere filled with the coruscations of a million million stars. The other half of the universe was the night side of Earth, but it looked like the abyss of nothingness from which all things came, and to which it may be that all things will return. McCauley reached over and switched on lights. Furness looked at him through eyes that seemed deep-sunk in his head. "You tore your pilot chute," he said thinly. "You've no chance to jump, now." McCauley scowled. There were various methods by which the ship could be landed or at least its occupants might escape its crash. There was the skip process, in which the ship could be settled down into atmosphere just thick enough to slow it as it bounced out to space again for another settling, another slowing, another bounce. It was considered the most practical way for a ship to get back to Earth after an orbital flight. To choose the final landing place, of course, was out of the question. Also it was believed that even with the best of luck the ship's crew might have to take to their chutes and let the ship crash. But Furness could not make a chute-drop. Nor could McCauley, now. "Time for a report," said McCauley. He'd meant to make it, but Furness summoned all his strength. He ran his eyes along the instruments. "X-21 reporting," he said as loudly as he could. "Just passed darkness line. Altitude...." He went through the list of readings to be given by voice. They might be picked up by satellite-tracking stations which did not quite pick up the ship itself. They would almost certainly be picked up by South African radio amateurs listening for them. "More comfortable?" McCauley asked gruffly.