"Thank you, Grunfeld." He caught the edge of the skull's answering grin. "We _are_ beginning to hit hydrogen," the quiet voice went on. "Forward skin temperature's up to 9 K." Beyond the friendly skull, a great patch of the rim of Uranus flared bright green. As if that final stimulus had been needed, Jackson began to talk dreamily from his suit. "They're still welcoming us and grieving for us. I begin to get it a little more now. Their ship's one thing and they're another. Their ship is frightened to death of us. It hates us and the only thing it knows to do is to kill us. They can't stop it, they're even less than passengers...." The captain was in his suit now. Grunfeld sensed a faint throbbing and felt a rush of cold air. The cabin refrigeration system had started up, carrying cabin heat to the lattice arms. Intended to protect them from solar heat, it would now do what it could against the heat of friction. The straight edge of Uranus was getting hazier. Even the fainter stars shone through, spangling it. A bell jangled and the pale green segment narrowed as the steel meteor panels began to close in front of the spaceshield. Soon there was only a narrow vertical ribbon of green--_bright_ green as it narrowed to a thread--then for a few seconds only blackness except for the dim red and blue beads and semi-circles, just beyond the captain, of the board. Then the muted interior cabin lights glowed on. * * * * * Jackson droned: "They and their ships come from very far away, from the edge. If this is the continuum, they come from the ... discontinuum, where they don't have stars but something else and where gravity is different. Their ships came from the edge on a gust of fear with the other ships, and our brothers came with it though they didn't want to...." And now Grunfeld thought he began to feel it--the first faint thrill, less than a cobweb's tug, of _weight_. The cabin wall moved sideways. Grunfeld's suit had begun to revolve slowly on a vertical axis. For a moment he glimpsed Jackson's dark profile--all five suits were revolving in their framework. They locked into position when the men in them were facing aft. Now at least retinas wouldn't pull forward at high-G decel, or spines crush through thorax and abdomen. The cabin air was cold on Grunfeld's forehead. And now he was sure he felt weight--maybe five pounds of it. Suddenly aft was _up_. It was as if he were lying on his back on the spaceshield. A sudden snarling roar came through his suit from the beams bracing it. He lost weight, then regained it and a little more besides. He realized it was their torpedo taking off, to skim by Uranus in the top of the atmosphere and then curve inward the little their chem fuel would let them, homing toward the Enemy. He imaged its tiny red jet over the great gray-green glowing plain. Four more would be taking off from the other ships--the fleet's feeble sting. Like a bee's, just one, in dying.