Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked back suddenly and smoothly, and something went, "Pop, pop," behind him and machinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Another jerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, and lifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blank the way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job, the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, then lifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shooting pain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard the high, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinery go. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. "Engine room! Engine room! We're under way! What happened?" Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking about the Earth he hadn't seen for many years. "Captain!" the speaker bawled. "There's a man in there! Working the valve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't...." Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steel rods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling the liner _Stardust_ toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet. If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. After that.... "Home," he coughed. "Hell! Who wants to go home?" He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranian fleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippled ship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano. A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Signal Red, by Henry Guth