As quickly as it had come, the storm was gone. The lightning faded. The rain ceased. The clouds melted and fell away over the sky. The wind whispered into silence. "The ship!" Lyte lay upon the ground. "The ship, Sim. This is the mountain of the ship!" Now the cold came. The killing cold. They forced themselves drunkenly up the mountain. The cold slid along their limbs, got into their arteries like a chemical and slowed them. Ahead of them, with a fresh-washed sheen, lay the ship. It was a dream. Sim could not believe that they were actually so near it. Two hundred yards. One hundred and seventy yards. Gods, but it was cold. [Illustration: _Ahead of them lay the ship. Sim could not believe they were so near._] The ground became covered with ice. They slipped and fell again and again. Behind them the river was frozen into a blue-white snake of cold solidity. A few last drops of rain from somewhere came down as hard pellets. Sim fell against the bulk of the ship. He was actually touching it. Touching it! He heard Lyte whimpering in her constricted throat. This was the metal, the ship. How many others had touched it in the long days? He and Lyte had made it! He touched it lovingly. Then, as cold as the air, his veins were chilled. Where was the entrance? You run, you swim, you almost drown, you curse, you sweat, you work, you reach a mountain, you go up it, you hammer on metal, you shout with relief, you reach the ship, and then--you can't find the entrance. * * * * * He fought to keep himself from breaking down. Slowly, he told himself, but not too slowly, go around the ship. The metal slid under his searching hands, so cold that his hands, sweating, almost froze to it. Now, far around to the side. Lyte moved with him. The cold held them like a fist. It began to squeeze. The entrance. Metal. Cold, immutable metal. A thin line of opening at the sealing point. Throwing all caution aside, he beat at it. He felt his stomach seething with cold. His fingers were numb, his eyes were half frozen in their sockets. He began to beat and search and scream against the metal door. "Open up! Open up!" He staggered. The air-lock sighed. With a whispering of metal on rubber beddings, the door swung softly sidewise and vanished back. He saw Lyte run forward, clutch at her throat, and drop inside a small shiny chamber. He shuffled after her, blankly. The air-lock door sealed shut behind him. He could not breathe. His heart began to slow, to stop. They were trapped inside the ship now, and something was happening. He sank down to his knees and choked for air. The ship he had come to for salvation was now slowing his pulse, darkening his brain, poisoning him. With a starved, faint kind of expiring terror, he realized that he was dying. Blackness. * * * * *