To answer the gentle knock on the door was too hard. He could turn his head a little. After a sharper knock, the door opened and Steward Loomis looked in. "Everything all right, Captain?" No answer. Loomis came over to the bunk quickly. "Tim, what's the matter?" "Hello, Loo. Weak, I guess." Words came easier now. "Better get Doc Keighley." "You bet I will," and the steward was already hurrying out the door. "You stay right there," he added firmly and unnecessarily. Tim stayed right there. The bed stopped falling, but he didn't move. He knew how to relax from years of practice in the hospital and years of habit before that. Keighley walked in, bag in hand, without knocking and came and sat on the edge of the bunk. "Tim?" "Hello, Doc. I feel done in. Air supply all right?" "Air's OK," Doc's hand felt Tim's forehead, reached for his wrist, his eye recording the sweep of the second hand on the desk chrono. A few moments later his stethoscope pressed against Tim's chest. * * * * * In answer to Keighley's probing questions, Tim described his symptoms. The doctor rummaged in his bag for a hypo-pak and ampule. After the shot, he took out a bottle of capsules, closed his bag and drew up the chair from the desk. "You know, Tim," he began softly, "we're both _old_ men. We can keep going indefinitely as long as the rate is slow and steady. Acceleration is mighty dangerous. Now you're going to rest." "... could stand a few days of taking it easy...." "Not a few days--months. Flat in bed." "But the ship ... the people...." The vision of Samuel Wyckoff rose again. "The crew and the Lord can take care of the ship; we people will have to take care of ourselves. We'll need you more the last few months of flight and after we land. If you've got to see anybody, I'll get them right now before that sedative takes effect." Tim's hand rose and fell. "All right, Doc," the thin, exhausted voice fell too. "Even Moses didn't make the Promised Land." "You'll make it, you fuddleheaded old Moses, if you obey Doc Keighley's commandments. Even Moses had more sense than to try to be captain and master of ceremonies and life of the party and general trouble shooter all at once." Daneshaw smiled wanly. "I'll be good. Better have El Avery come up before I go to sleep. He'll have to take on some of my duties or figure out somebody else. He knows as much about the ship as anybody. Don't worry him, though, Frank. He's a nervous old dog.... By the way, can I read?" "You can't even hold a book for a couple of weeks at least. If you want to hear something, I'll send you a reader or you can have a player and a bunch of wires if we carry anything but treatises on farming. I wouldn't be surprised if Avery'd make a good top man--more autocratic, less tolerant than you, but there are more ways of killing a cat ... and I'll assign you nurses in six hour shifts. It'll keep some of the girls out of mischief." "Frank ... have a heart!"