"I guess this thing ain't going to work," Knucklebone said. "We've been here only a couple of weeks, and look what happens. I never thought it would be any good anyway." Salvor-Jones bared his teeth. "There isn't a storm like this one every twenty-five years," he growled. "Don't sit there; we've got to go up on the dome. No! Stay where you are. I don't want this job botched." He began to struggle into his exposure suit. "If the _Star_ hits it head-on there'll be hell to pay," Knucklebone said diffidently. "I was in one of these storms once before on an old crate out in the Belt." He got up and stretched his spidery frame languidly. Then he went over and took down his impossibly long exposure suit from its hook. "What are you doing?" Salvor-Jones said. "Guess I'll go with you." "You're going to play hell," Professor Salvor-Jones said in an unscholarly manner. "What good could you possibly be?" There was a steely glint in Knucklebone Smith's eyes. Later on, at the inquiry, Salvor-Jones testified concerning that glint. "Listen," Smith said, "I guess I'm sick and tired of you trying to play the big hero all alone on this here tub. A body would think I was a moron. They picked me out of millions, didn't they? That's Destiny. I guess you haven't thought about it, but everybody's got a Destiny--something they can do better than anybody else. Everybody's good at something." It was a long speech for Knucklebone Smith. There were two red spots of anger on his sallow cheeks. "So I've heard," Salvor-Jones said wryly. "Well, come along, but don't say I didn't warn you. It may be the end of us, you know." Knucklebone snorted. He had walked in the shadow of death before. A man had his destiny. Something worthwhile to perform before he kicked off. And if he had ever done anything worthwhile he couldn't remember it. He zipped up his suit and reached for his helmet. The roof hatch, massively armored, opened noiselessly on its hydraulic supports. The coldness rushed at them, and could not be entirely shut out by the suits. Smith shivered throughout his long, skinny body. Clambering out on the roof of the beacon they became aware of what seemed like a strong wind, but what was, in reality, microscopic interstellar dust from the storm, traveling at supersonic speed, flattening their suits against them. Here and there a pea-sized pebble clanged against the metal hull like a bullet. Crouching in the shelter of the antenna tower, they scanned its naked ribs of steel alloy for a break. At last Salvor-Jones, who knew what he was looking for, found it, six feet up, where a meteorite had smashed into the coaxial and shorted it against the frame. He climbed up and went to work, cursing to himself in his helmet as the death missiles hurtled about him.