The slow hours crept by. Men no longer spoke. They sat apart, unmoving, in the shadowed cabin. Markoe alone was absent--at work in his laboratory in the stern; hopeless, but fighting to the last. Parker lay sleeping peacefully. The air was still, and faintly musty. Beyond the ports the stars blazed. The ship was rolling slightly, and at long intervals the sun, small with distance, rose sluggishly in the starboard ports, shot shafts of brighter light into the cabin. In the silence a clock's tick was loud, portentous--a funeral drum attending the passing seconds. With a curse, one of the men got up and stopped its ticking. Cargyle was lost in a deep reverie, remembering Earth, his home, his parents, green fields bright with spring foliage, the great cities he had known, the mountains, seas. In his imagination he heard the music of Earth, and saw the sunrise. It was very far away now, and lost forever. But he had known the price the spaceman paid. He had no regrets. Into his line of vision crept a pale blur of light and his eyes focused on it. It was a flame-thing--one of the earthworms of space. They had at last invaded the pilot cabin. Idly he watched it. It was no more than a foot in length--an "infant." It made a feeble glow against the wall as it came slowly toward them, its tip moving like the tongue of a snake. Parker awoke, and made a small disturbance as he groaned, yawned, and got up and helped himself to water and food. When he gathered his tools and started for the recalcitrant rocket timer one of the anonymous shapes in the shadow growled: "For Lord's sake!" "Go to hell," said Parker, and crouched down over the timer. Cargyle grinned. With so little time left--and to spend it on a broken piece of machinery! But after all, maybe Parker's way was the sanest. He was moving the manual control, and the timer crackled, and spat fat, blue sparks. The flame-thing suddenly recoiled, drew back as though stung. Cautiously it advanced again; again sprang back. It rose upright, stood weaving and swaying. "You fool! Don't you know we're--" "Sure I know!" Parker shut off the timer to turn and answer. "We're going out! To hell with it! Sit there and cry about it, if you want! But before I go I'll know what's wrong with this damned thing!" The "infant" flame was advancing again. Parker switched on the timer, and began his rhythmic movement of the control. The instant the timer began its hissing little beat, the "spaceworm" stopped, sprang erect, began twisting, winding. It had approached quite close. A tiny sound came from it--a thin, high squealing--the first sound Cargyle had ever heard them make. Something strange was happening to the spaceworm. It had lost its unity; its upper end was splitting up into fine threads of twisting color that spread out, separated. The squealing ceased; there was a final faint _pop!_ a brighter flash of color, then the thing was gone!