"But if they don't?" the prostrate man insisted. "You know, when you blow the main valves you can't close them again from the inside. You may have plenty of air for that suit, but how will you eat? Breathing is just one problem in a space suit." "They'll be here inside of twenty hours, I told you." "And you'll be dead." "Why?" "Because they double-crossed you good. Sure, they'll get the fattest cargo this can ever carried. But your share of it will be a shove outside. You'll be just as damned dead as I'll be." "How did they cross me up?" A ghost of a smile distorted the swollen face that had once been lean and handsome. "Find out," he said simply. In spite of himself Frane checked back on his procedure. Purposely or otherwise, could they have left out some essential step in order to reduce the number of splits on the cargo? He ticked off the steps of his project and could find no reasonable omission. Carefully he fitted on the bubble, opened the oxygen valve and made the meter read what they had told him. The hiss told him he was getting gas, but surprisingly, there was no perceptible motion of air in the helmet. Clever inlet baffles prevented the chilly drafts that had plagued pioneer spacemen with head colds and sneezes. He was sweating already, but, he reflected, it wouldn't do any harm to store up a little body heat against the hours of this absolute zero they talked about. * * * * * He checked the chronometer which he'd strapped to the wrist of his suit. "Right on time," he shouted in order to be heard through the plastic bubble. His bulky hand paused clumsily on the master air outlet valve switch. He raised his other arm in a derisive farewell gesture. "Quick-frozen space punks!" he shouted. "Get them cheap from Frane Lewis, wholesale triggerman." He laughed hoarsely as he jabbed the switch. The sound of air rushing from vents never intended to be opened in space, screeched a shrill requiem even through the thick curved helmet. As the sound grew fainter his suit bulged out and threw him off balance. He toppled over and landed face down on the dying navigator. For one grisly second the swollen, contorted face with bulging eyes glared at him, then he rolled away in a convulsed panic that ripped his air hose from its connection. The hiss stopped, and almost instantly his rapid respiration fouled the air of his tiny headspace. Frantic, mitted hands fought the slender hose back over the nipple, struggled with the safety clamp, and once again the sweet air dribbled into his lungs.