He hesitated before the door of his cabin. His fingers relaxed and the broken handle fell to the deck. The hand which rested on the knob came away and he rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Come in," she called. He opened the door, stepped into the room and straightened himself, his face perhaps being more ferocious in his attempt to cover his disturbed mind. Idly, he noted the tray of untouched food. She was still sitting on the edge of the bunk, her face pale and drawn. "Everything all right?" Brace asked evenly. She nodded. "We'll be blasting off soon," he said. "Better stay in the bunk." He turned, opened a small door and drew out a one piece uniform. Without looking at her, he picked up a pair of boots, a cap, and took his log book from a drawer. "I'll leave you my cabin," he murmured. She didn't answer. Brace thumbed through his log, unseeing. There was no sound in the room for a long time except his heavy breathing and the swishing of the leaves of the log. Finally he looked up and said, "I'm not doing this because I want to." The words seemed empty and hollow. "Kid, these are the breaks!" He wished desperately she wouldn't look at him that way. He hesitated, then said, "If you had your choice--that is--you could die, quick and clean--or--well--you could live--but not so clean--" She stared at him blankly for a moment. "I--I--guess we all have to die sometime. It's much better to die quickly, instantly--than--to drag it out. Nobody wants to die--but when you have to--maybe it's not so bad." "Yeah, I knew you'd want it that way." Brace turned and opened the door. "You're a nice kid," he murmured. "Wish I'd never seen you." * * * * * In the control room, Brace waited by his acceleration chair until the pilot and the mate entered. The signal man closed and dogged the entrance, then settled into his chair. He threw some switches and droned into a microphone, "Gorgon III, Clearance No. 13749. Out of Titan, Sullivan City to Mars. Cargo as inspected." There was a short pause, then a mechanical voice said, "Clearance, Gorgon III. Luck." Brace cinched the webbing tighter across his chest and nodded. "Raise 1.8 G's," Barrows ordered. Immediately, the ship jarred and Brace sank into his chair. The sustained roar from the jets thundered through the ship, making the panels and bulkheads rattle. Minutes passed, then the pilot called, "Atomic Height!" "Cut in the atomics!" Barrows ordered. "2 G's." The atomic converter's whine ran through the metal structure of the ship and the roar of the jets died away to the deeper boom of the atomic drive. Brace sank a little further into the cushions. "3 G's!" Barrows ordered.