They raked the space station with blast after blast--futilely. They spun and twisted and streaked by, offering poor targets. Temple waited his chance ... and glanced at the dial which measured radioactivity. He yelped, stood up. The needle had encroached upon the red area. Death to remain where he was more than a moment or two. Not quick death, but rather slow and lingering. He could do what he had to, then perish hours later. His life--for Earth? If Arkalion had known all the answers, and if he could get both ships and if there weren't another alternative for the aliens, the parasites.... Temple stabbed out with his pencil beam, caught the sixth ship, then saw the needle dip completely into the red. He got up trembling, stepped back, half tripped on the stump of a girder as his eyes strayed in fascination to the viewing screen. The seventh ship was out of range, hovering off in the void somewhere, awaiting its chance. If Temple left the gun the ship would come in close enough to hit the emplacement despite its protective shielding. Well, it was suicide to remain there--especially when the ship wasn't even in view. Temple leaped over the molten pool and left the vault. * * * * * He found Sophia stirring, sitting up. "What hit me?" she said, and laughed. "Something seems to have gone wrong, Kit ... what...?" "It's all right now," he told her, lying. "You look pale." "You got one. I got five. One ship to go." "What are you waiting for?" And Sophia sprang to her feet, heading for the vault. "Hold it!" Temple snapped. "Don't go in there." "Why not. I'll get the last ship and--" "_Don't go in there!_" Temple tugged at her arm, pulled her away from the vault and its broken door which would not iris closed any more. "What's the matter, Kit?" "I--I want to finish the last one myself, that's all." Sophia got herself loose, reached the circular doorway, peered inside. "Like Dante's Inferno," she said. "You told me nothing was the matter. Well, we can get through to the emplacement, Kit." "No." And again he stopped her. At least he had lived in freedom all his life and although he was still young and did not want to die, Sophia had never known freedom until now and it wouldn't be right if she perished without savoring its fruits. He had a love, dust fifty centuries, he had his past and his memories. Sophia had only the future. Clearly, if someone had to yield life, Temple would do it. "It's worse than it looks," he told her quietly, drawing her back from the door again. He explained what had happened, told her the radioactivity had not quite reached critical point--which was a lie. "So," he concluded, "we're wasting time. If I rush in there, fire, and rush right out everything will be fine." "Then let me. I'm quicker than you."