But, unreasonably, Cargyle clung to the belief that there was something about the control cabin.... * * * * * In the high vacuum of those airless cabins there was no diffusion of light--the shadows were deep, ink-black. Through the jagged holes in the hull--where holes in the inner and outer skin coincided--entered faint star-light; on Markoe's table dim lights gleamed; and everywhere the gorgeous colors of the flame-things flickered. It was a weird and eerie setting: a suitable background for the incredible beings that moved against it. Danger was there also, which was the principle reason Cargyle spent so much time there. Should Markoe be struck down by one of the flame-things he might suffocate, if his oxygen tank was nearly empty, or turned off by the fall, before anyone came to him. But the flame-things paid them little attention. The men moved little, and then slowly. They watched them reproduce. A tiny branch flame would appear. At first it would be ochre-colored, but as it lengthened it acquired the prismatic character of its parent. Then, abruptly, it broke off, and was a separate individual. It was upon these "infant" flames that most of Markoe's experiments were made--they were unable to discharge the paralyzing ray of their parents, and they could be moved about by persuading them to mount a loose piece of metal. One cabin in the stern Cargyle avoided. It held the dead--a half dozen bodies laid side by side, each under a white sheet. In the sharp mosaic of pale light and deep shadow, these six glimmering shapes, austere and rigid in the final stillness of death, struck a cold foreboding into the beholder. Preserved in the airless cold of space, there was something prophetic in their fixity. On the third day the men closed off the last compartment. They were confined now to the control room, unless they wished to visit Markoe's laboratory, or roam the ship in space-suits. The control cabin contained a separate plant for light, heat and air-renewal. Batteries, and a small generator operated by its own motor and tank of fuel, were banked beneath the floor. It constituted another defense against mutineers. Periodically Wallace took sights and computed their position. Simms made no effort to relieve him. The chief officer had discarded coat and cap; dark hair, uncombed, hung across his forehead. From beneath it his shadowed eyes watched the captain sullenly. Strain marked them all. Some sat in hopeless silence; others restlessly paced the slow hours away. Parker, alone among those aboard the dying _Denebola_, seemed unaffected. He busied himself repairing the damaged equipment, devoting most of his time to the starboard dorsal rocket timer, which resisted all his efforts. Although it sparked each time a terminal was contacted, something inside the timer was out of order, for it boiled and hissed. Once Simms snarled at him: "Parker, you fool! Let it alone! What the hell's the use of that now?"