And it was then, at the intersection of two courses formed by an infinity of variables, that two objects arrived in the same millisecond of time. Eight ounces of nickel iron smashed into the stern of Spaceboat 6, ripped a path of ruin through her entire length, and went out through the two inch glass of her bow, before Morley could turn his head. He was aware, in a strange dream-like way, of actuating the midships airtight door, of the hiss of air as the little aneroid automatically opened valves to compensate for the drop in pressure, and of Madsen leaping into the control room and slapping a Johnson patch over the hole in the bow. Madsen was white but composed. "We can slow her down but we can't land her. Get suits while I take over. We'll ride as far as we can, and walk the rest of the way." He fought with the controls, as Morley, still bemused, obeyed. At twenty-five hundred feet they bailed out, and floating down seconds later, watched Spaceboat 6 crash into a low wooded hill. And when they landed, and inspected the wreckage, it was some minutes before either spoke. It was obvious at a glance that Spaceboat 6 was ready for the boneyard, had there been one around. The ship, under the few automatic controls that were still functioning, had sliced in at a thirty degree angle, ploughed a short distance through a growth of slim, poplar-like trees, and then crumpled completely against an outcropping granite ledge. Finally Morley gulped audibly, and Madsen laughed. "Well, Mastermind, any suggestions that might help us? Any little pearls of wisdom from the great brain?" "Just one," Morley answered. "Head for the Equator, and--" "And try to find a D.D. Correct. If we last that long. Let's salvage what we can out of this junk and shove off." Morley cleared his throat diffidently. "There are a few pieces of equipment we should take along, for--er--emergencies--" His voice trailed off miserably under Madsen's basilisk stare. "Listen, Morley, once and for all. We're lugging essentials and that's all. Any extra weight is out." "But, listen--" Madsen ignored the interruption, and cut loose with one last broadside. "Save your breath. It's bad enough being saddled with a useless little squirt like you, without being made into a pack mule unnecessarily." II He climbed into a gaping hole in the bow. Morley followed, humiliated but still thinking hard. Catalogue it, he told himself. Remember everything. The Distress Depots, or D.D.'s, as spacemen called them, were studded on every frontier world, usually on the Equator. They contained two small spacecraft plus ample supplies of food, medicine, and tools. When wrecked, get to a D.D. and live. It was that simple.