The cheekpieces and foreheadpiece of Grunfeld's suit began to close on his face like layers of pliable ice. Jackson called faintly, "_Now_ I understand. Their ship--" His voice was cut off. Grunfeld's ice-mask was tight shut. He felt a small surge of vigor as the suit took over his breathing and sent his lungs a gush of high-oxy air. Then came a tingling numbness as the suit field went on, adding an extra prop against decel to each molecule of his body. But the weight was growing. He was on the moon now ... now on Mars ... now back on Earth.... The weight was stifling now, crushing--a hill of invisible sand. Grunfeld saw a black pillow hanging in the cabin above him aft. It had red fringe around it. It grew. There was a whistling and shaking. Everything lurched torturingly, the ship's jets roared, everything recovered, or didn't. The black pillow came down on him, crushing out sight, crushing out thought. * * * * * The universe was a black tingling, a limitless ache floating in a larger black infinity. Something drew back and there was a dry fiery wind on numb humps and ridges--the cabin air on his face, Grunfeld decided, then shivered and started at the thought that he was alive and in free-fall. His body didn't feel like a mass of internal hemorrhages. Or did it? He spun slowly. It stopped. Dizziness? Or the suits revolving forward again? If they'd actually come through-- There was a creaking and cracking. The ship contracting after frictional heating? There was a faint stink like ammonia and formaldehyde mixed. A few Uranian molecules forced past plates racked by turbulence? He saw dim red specks. The board? Or last flickers from ruined retinas? A bell jangled. He waited, but he saw nothing. Blind? Or the meteor guard jammed? No wonder if it were. No wonder if the cabin lights were broken. The hot air that had dried his sweaty face rushed down the front of his body. Needles of pain pierced him as he slumped forward out of the top of his opening suit. Then he saw the horizontal band of stars outlining the top of the spaceshield and below it the great field of inky black, barely convex upward, _that must_, he realized, _be the dark side of Uranus_. Pain ignored, Grunfeld pushed himself forward out of his suit and pulled himself past the captain's to the spaceshield. The view stayed the same, though broadening out: stars above, a curve-edged velvet black plain below. They were orbiting. A pulsing, color-changing glow from somewhere showed him twisted stumps of the radio lattices. There was no sign of the mirror at all. It must have been torn away, or vaporized completely, in the fiery turbulence of decel. New maxs showed on the board: Cabin Temperature 214 F, Skin Temperature 907 K, Gravs 87.