Merrill's habitual shrug was expressive. "It couldn't have mattered. Where else is there to go? I didn't think of it before you mentioned Hidalgo because I had no idea where it would be. In a way, I'm glad we're going there. You see ... my father commanded that charting expedition which was never heard from again. Now maybe I'll find out at last what really happened." * * * * * Norman lost all sense of time. The flight through space assumed the elastic dimension of nightmare. He went aft again and checked with the radiation-fighters. There, the fight was going on in the engine room. It was at best a delaying action. Men dropped where they stood and were carried out. The lucky ones died of frightful burns where radioactive metal had spit through joints in their armor. The speaker rattled inside his helmet as he addressed Failles. "If it spreads to the outside armor plates of the hull, we're done," he said. Failles cackled. "It's already spread. They're glowing and beginning to buckle." "Keep fighting it down." "We can't. We're running short of Rayburn's Isotope." "When it's gone, get your men into the dome-hold. There's an escape hatch there." Harald looked up as Norman returned to the control room. "I finally got Scorpio. These tubes are nearly burned out. I guess there's enough free radiation loose in this ship to fry eggs. The old man said they'd relay our message to the freighters. They'll check by Hidalgo to see if we made it." Merrill was staring out the spaceport at the glittering darkness ahead. "It's been nearly two hours," he said. "D'you think we'll be able to see it soon?" "I doubt it. We're coming up on dark-side. Perhaps a faint radiance. Put everything on automatic, you two, and get into space suits. The others will meet us in the dome." "Hull armor's going. We'll have to abandon ship. I hope we can raise Hidalgo. If not--" Norman bent over the chart panel and checked his figures. He glanced at the indicator board. "I still get 11.18/4. And we're making incredible time. Maybe we'll make it--" In the vast dome-hold at the nose of the hurtling liner were a group of burned and battered men. They grumbled hopelessly. Most of them were in bad shape. Failles was at the spaceport. "No sign of Hidalgo," he reported. "There won't be much to see," Norman warned him. "Try the magnascope." Radiations were so powerful now that it was impossible to take the armor off the badly burned men long enough to tend their injuries. Thirty-one men still lived, but seven were seriously burned, at least one dying. Time dragged hideously. In spite of the insulating layers, released energy from the degenerating metallic armor struck through the hold and built up heat alarmingly. Thermal indicators registered the temperature of a blast furnace. Automatic thermal adjustors inside the cumbersome armor could not react rapidly enough to keep up with the rising temperature.