"I ... I don't know. Matter itself might be different ... here." Strykalski found himself at the port again, looking out into the vast stretch of alien void. Terror was seeping like dampness through him, stretching cold fingers into his heart and mind. He realized that everyone on board must feel the same way. It was the old human devil rising from the pit of the primeval past. Fear of the unknown, of the strange. And there was loneliness. From the dark corners of his mind, the terrible loneliness came stealing forth. Never had a group of human beings been so frighteningly _apart_ from their kind. He felt rejected, scorned and lost. The others felt it, too. Ivy and Cob drew closer, until all three stood touching each other; as though they could dispel the loneliness of the unnatural environment by the warmth of human, animal contact. Celia came into the bridge softly ... just to be near her friends. It was only the fact that they could return at will to their own space ... and the danger of the questing Eridans ... that kept one or all from crying out in utter childish fear. Celia Graham whimpered softly and slipped her hand into Cob's. He squeezed it to give her a reassurance he did not feel. Then Strike broke the spell. The effort was great, but it brushed away the shadows that had risen to plague them from the tortured abyss of racial memory. It brought them back to what they were: highly civilized people, parts of an intricately technological culture. Their ship was a part of that culture. The only part they could cling to. The _Cleopatra_ demanded attention and service, and her demanding saved them. "Cob," Strike directed with forced briskness, "Take over Damage Control. See what can be done about the second-order drive." Cob pulled himself together, smiling as all the accustomed pieces of his life began to fit together again. It didn't matter that they were in an unknown cosmos. Damage Control was something he knew and understood. He smiled thankfully and left the bridge. "Maintain a continuous radar-watch, Celia. We can't tell what we may encounter here." "Yes, Captain," replied Celia gratefully. Strykalski reached for the squawk-box and called Bayne. "Astrogation here," came the shaky reply. In the exposed blisters the agoraphobia must be more acute, reasoned Strike, and Bayne must have been subconsciously stirred up by the disappearance of the familiar stars that were his stock-in-trade. "Plot us a course to 40 Eridani C, Bayne," Strykalski directed. "On gyro-headings." "What?" The astrogator sounded as though he thought Strike had lost his mind. "Through _this_ space?" "Certainly," Strykalski insisted quietly. "You're so proud of your dead-reckoning. Here's a chance for you to do a real job. Get me an orbit." "I ... all right, Captain," grumbled Bayne.