Stiffening, he watched the first of the six doglatches on the hatch swing to the unlocked position. He moved over against the starboard bulkhead, well away from the hatch. He would have to get out of the suit again, and it would be a messy job if he were standing close to Altman when the vacuum went to work on him. The final doglatch unsnapped. The hatch crashed open and he imagined he could almost hear the swoosh of escaping air. Instead he heard a mocking voice over his audio. "You were right, captain," the voice laughed. "Who'd think Conally would try a trick like that?" Altman taunted, extending a spacesuit clad leg across the hatch ledge. "You would and did.... He'll probably be right behind the hatch to the left there, boss." Brad sprang forward. But Altman turned suddenly in his direction and pointed a gun at Brad's stomach. It checked the attack. Brad backed away hopelessly. "Okay," Altman jerked his head in the confines of the helmet, "go to work." The crewman from the Queen stepped into the control cabin and walked toward the passageway aft while Altman held the gun on Brad. "Think you can do it quick enough?" Altman asked the crewman. "Radiation, you know." The crewman thrust the wide-mouthed gun above his shoulder where Altman could see it. "It'll just take one shot with this." He disappeared down the passageway. "Hell, captain," the voice sounded a minute later. "It's dead. He musta used up all his reserve juice in that last surge upward." "Okay," Altman smiled--a weird, distorted smile as seen through the thick, rounded helmet. "Come on back." He looked at Brad. "So you can't pull away from the trough any longer? That's tough." Brad wanted to say, Okay, Altman, I'll go aboard the Queen with you. But he didn't. He realized the plea would have been futile anyway as he watched the crewman rejoin Altman and heard the latter say: "Just think, Conally, you could have come aboard. I would have let you a while back. But you've made this thing too tough and gave my boys the chance to convince me we might have slipped up somewhere and you might be able to prove your side of the story." The pair retreated to the air lock. Brad stood motionless, staring, not breathing. "The pile'll hold," the crewman announced, "for another four hours, just about." "Fine!" Altman exclaimed. "This junk'll slip through within an hour. That'll give us another three hours, at least, to get this stiff aboard the Queen and transfer cargo before she blows. Then we can mop up on whatever crates we've...." But the air lock closed and the rest of his words were cut off. * * * * * If he could only get cleaned up before it came. If he could only enjoy the luxury of a bath, a shave, clean clothes. Brad laughed at the last item, wondering how clothes could be expected to remain clean if they were on someone making the spillthrough transition at coasting speed.