"Something burning," he mumbled, looking around to see what it was. "It's you!" cried Christine. Walt looked down at his hip, where the tiny power tube was, and he saw it smoking. As he watched, flame burst from the inside and came through. He shucked the suit just as it burst into open flames, and he watched it burn on the metal floor. He warmed himself against the flames, but they were too meager to really help, and five minutes later all that was left of the heated suit was a still-operating power tube and a tangled maze of red hot heater-resistance wire. Walt shivered. Beneath the suit he wore the usual slacks and short-sleeved shirt, and it was pitifully inadequate. The dullness that had been assailing him for hours reasserted itself--strengthened by the exertion of removing the suit--and helped not at all by the scant warmth from the fire. Walt reeled dizzily, his eyes half closed, beads of ice from the tears on his lashes gave the scene a dazzlingly sparkling tone that prevented him from seeing clearly. He fell forward and his body twitched violently as his skin touched the viciously cold metal of the floor. Christine hurled the covers back and with great effort she pulled and lifted Walt onto the couch. She covered him and then leaned down and kissed him with dry, cracked lips. As she stood up, she felt a spear of pain at her side. Looking, she found her suit on fire as Walt's had been. As Christine fumbled with cold fingers at the fastenings, she realized that only the added warmth of the blankets had kept both suits from burning out at the same time. For they were duplicated models and were identical; therefore they would burn out at exactly the same temperature. She shivered in her thin summer frock even though she stood with the flames licking at her sandals. Then there were two useless tangles of wire on the floor, their red-hot wires struggling hopelessly against the monstrous quantity of cold. Christine shuddered convulsively, and turned slowly to look at Walt. He was asleep already. The sleep of frozen death. Christine's eyes filled with tears which she brushed away quickly. She smiled faintly. It seemed warmer under the blankets, or maybe it was warmer there beside him. His arm went around her instinctively though he slept and Christine pressed against him partly to gain what warmth there was from him and partly to give him what warmth there was in her. It was warmer beneath the blankets. Or, she thought just before the dizzying but welcome waves of black slumber crept over her, this is that feeling of warmth that goes before-- * * * * * "Now that," said Arden with complimentary tones, "is something that duplicating can't buy."