By the time that the _Solar Queen_ should have been dropping out of the sky at Mojave Spaceport, the ship would be one hundred and ninety million miles beyond Terra and flirting with the imaginary line that marked the orbit of Mars. That would be in seventeen hours. * * * * * Weightless, Channing pursued a crazy course in the salon of the spinning ship. He ached all over from the pressure, but the gravanol had kept his head clear and the adhesive tape had kept his body intact. He squirmed around in the dimness and could see the inert figures of the rest of the people who had occupied the salon at the time of the mishap. He became sick. Violence was not a part of Channing's nature--at least he confined his violence to those against whom he required defense. But he knew that many of those people who pursued aimless orbits in the midair of the salon with him would never set foot on solidness again. He wondered how many broken bones there were among those who had lived through the ordeal. He wondered if the medical staff of one doctor and two nurses could cope with it. Then he wondered what difference it made if they were to go on and on, and from that thought came the one he should have thought of first: How were they to stop going on and on? Channing had a rough idea of what had happened. He knew something about the conditions under which they had been traveling, how long, and in which direction. It staggered him, the figures he calculated in his mind. It behooved him to do something. He bumped an inert figure, and grabbed. One hand took the back of the head and came away wet and sticky. Channing retched, and then threw the inert man from him. He coasted back against a wall, and caught a handrail. Hand-over-hand he went to the door and into the hall. Down the hall he went to the passengers' elevator shaft and with no thought of what his action would have been on any planet, Channing opened the door and drove down the shaft for several decks. He emerged and headed for the sick ward. He found the doctor clinging to his operating table with his knees and applying a bandage to one of his nurses' heads. "Hello, Doc," said Channing. "Help?" "Grab Jen's feet and hold her down," snapped the doctor. "Bad?" asked Don as he caught the flailing feet. "Seven stitches, no fracture," said the doctor. "How's the other one?" "Unconscious, but unharmed. Both asleep in bed, thank God. So was I. Where were--? You're Channing and were all doped up with gravanol and adhesive. Thank yourself a god for that, too. I'm going to need both of my nurses and we'll all need you." "Hope I can do some good," said Don. "You'd better. Or any good I can do will be wasted. Better start right now. Here," the doctor produced a set of keys, "these will unlock anything in the ship but the purser's safe. You'll need 'em. Now get along and do something and leave the body-mending to me. Scram!" "Can you make out all right?"