Burnet shook himself free and stood up. Then he saw Joe placing Arden's body on the bed. "Well!" Joe turned and smiled. Then he was serious: "Arden's got the radio disease." "Your fault, Joe," Burnet said. "He was right." "No," Joe said doggedly. "He had it when he came aboard, too. He's got it bad, too. See what you can do for him, Doc." Then Joe trotted out of the hospital room, and headed for the kitchen storerooms. Wick Wilson, who doubled as cook and metallurgist, was opening cans and draining off the liquid into a tub. "Help?" asked Joe. Wick Wilson looked at Joe briefly, said: "I thought you were in the brig." Then, "Sure, lug the tub down to the power room. We're trying to get enough water out of the juice to make catalyst." Joe hoisted the tub to one shoulder. "How about something to eat?" Wick went into the kitchen, pulled a half chicken out of the refrigerator, brought back. "Southern fried," he said. "It'll hold you together." Joe bit off a chunk and carried the rest in one hand as he balanced the tub of fruit and vegetable juices on one shoulder and strode from the room. * * * * * Black Tom was putting the finishing touches on a metal cylinder he had salvaged from some of the shattered tanks. As Joe came in the power room door, Black Tom asked: "How does it look? Been a long time since I did any welding, but it'll hold water." Black Tom and Herd, the assistant pilot, had bolted the jury rigged tank to the floor, and had, through some amateur plumbing work, hooked up a pipe system to the atomic motor. Joe jerked his chicken-filled hand at the tub on his shoulder. "Where does this juice go?" Morrissey apparently had just realized that Joe was free. He looked at him blankly for a moment. "Dump it in the tank," he said, pointing to the metal ladder leaning against the tank. "But keep your distance," he added. "We don't want to catch the plague." Joe grinned, stuffed the remainder of the chicken in his mouth, carried the tub up the ladder, and dumped the conglomerated juices into the circular opening at the top of the tank. Joe came down the ladder. "Got enough yet?" he questioned. "Hell, no," exploded Black Tom. "Look at the gauge we rigged up. Here." Joe looked at the gauge affixed to the side of the tank. It was about two inches below a chalk line Black Tom had drawn. "The white line marks the absolute minimum of water we need to get the ship within gravitational pull of the Earth; from there in it's up to our extensor vanes." "How much do you need yet?" Joe asked. Black Tom grunted. "About twelve gallons--and if those juices run out, we'll have to do some wholesale lemon and orange squeezing." Joe started to turn. Black Tom said: "Thanks, Joe, for the can suggestion. It may pull us through." Joe nodded, went up with his tub for another load of juice. When he had dumped the second load in, he said: