Slipping out of his space suit in the narrow confines of the little reconnaissance ship, Dirk noticed that the omnipresent grey ooze had clung to his suit and boots. It lay in quivering globules on the floor. Automatically, he checked his controls and got a clearance from the command center. The take-off was uneventful, and with the speed of light, he slipped through the atmosphere of Caliban and into the whirling void of space. Quickly, he made his calculations and set his course for Terra. No margin for error in an SD-4. The fuel tank held only enough for the one-way trip to Terra. Any miscalculation might prove fatal. Once set, however, the controls were fool-proof. He could relax, forget the spinning galaxies around him, forget that he was a lost mote in the infinite void. He could close his eyes and forget the last twenty-four hours, or even the last twenty-four years, for after all, the error over Caliban was only the climax of his many years of maladjustment. His father would be all right. He would still have his beloved armada, and there would always be new worlds to conquer; until after one such expedition, the commandant would fail to return; and that was the way he'd want it. Yes. His father was all right. His life was too solidly based to be shaken. But what of himself? What lay ahead for him on Terra? A space pilot with a dishonorable discharge! ... For some time, he had experienced a growing sensation that he was being observed, that someone or something was behind him, watching. He closed his eyes. Space nerves. That's all it was. There was no one else in the SD-4. He was alone. And yet, the feeling persisted. He felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and a cold shiver shook him. He had to turn around. He couldn't resist the impulse. Slowly, he opened his eyes and swiveled in his chair. The floor in the corner where he had hung his space suit was alive! A spreading, pulsating jelly ... quivering in the half-light of the cabin. This was a living thing--growing. For a moment, all he could do was sit and stare in hypnotic horror at the tremelloid monstrosity quaking in the corner. Even as he watched, another section of the floor was obscured by the viscous transparency. He crouched against the instrument panel and drew his disinteray. Fighting down the sick, panic that swelled in his throat, he fired, time after time, into the undulating, pulpy mass on the floor. The impact had no visible effect. Still he could see it growing ... spilling with soft, slobbery noises across the ship toward him. Frantically, he threw up a temporary barricade between himself and the Thing: some filing cabinets, a desk, an up-ended chair. Perhaps that would check its terrible, oozing progress for a little while. * * * * *