"I don't know," he groaned. "I don't know--I thought a bargain could be made, but now I wonder." "I leave him to you," said Morzach sardonically, and vanished. "Basil," whispered Valduma. "Basil, I have--sometimes--missed you." "Get out, Wocha," said Donovan. "Boss--she's toombar--" "Get out!" Wocha lumbered slowly from the cabin. There were tears in his eyes. IV The _Ganymede's_ engines rose to full power and the pilot controls spun over without a hand on them. "Engine room! Engine room! Stop that nonsense down there!" "We can't--they're frozen--the converter has gone into full without us--" "Sir, I can't budge this stick. It's locked somehow." The lights went out. Men screamed. "Get me a flashlight!" snapped Takahashi in the dark. "I'll take this damned panel apart myself." The beam etched his features against night. "Who goes?" he cried. "It's I." Jansky appeared in the dim reflected glow. "Never mind, Takahashi. Let the ship have her way." "But ma'm, we could crash--" "I've finally gotten Donovan to talk. He says we're in the grip of some kind of powerbeam. They'll pull us to one of their space stations and then maybe we can negotiate--or fight. Come on, we've got to quiet the men." The flashlight went out. Takahashi's laugh was shrill. "Better quiet me first, Captain." Her hand was on his arm, steadying, strengthening. "Don't fail me, Tetsuo. You're the last one I've got. I just had to paralyze Scoresby." "Thanks--thanks, chief. I'm all right now. Let's go." They fumbled through blindness. The engines roared, full speed ahead with a ghost on the bridge. Men were stumbling and cursing and screaming in the dark. Someone switched on the battle-stations siren, and its howl was the last voice of insanity. Struggle in the dark, wrestling, paralyzing the berserk, calling on all the iron will which had lifted humankind to the stars--slow restoration of order, men creeping to general quarters, breathing heavily in the guttering light of paper torches. The engines cut off and the ship snapped into normal matter state. Helena Jansky saw blood-red sunlight through the viewport. There was no time to sound the alarm before the ship crashed. * * * * * "A hundred men. No more than a hundred men alive." She wrapped her cloak tight about her against the wind and stood looking across the camp. The streaming firelight touched her face with red, limning it against the utter dark of the night heavens, sheening faintly in the hair that blew wildly around her strong bitter countenance. Beyond, other fires danced and flickered in the gloom, men huddled around them while the cold seeped slowly to their bones. Here and there an injured human moaned.