Little noises startled him. If an occasional drop of water happened to collide with him in the cabin, it sent him into a raving fury--blood pressure be damned. He even derived a certain grim amusement from it, thinking of the times he had laughed at the typical picture of the apoplectic businessman. * * * * * On the eighth day, when making the check of the instrument panel, he noticed that the panel on the board reading "Manual Control" was lit; the one marked "Automatic" was out. In the middle of the board was the face of an oscilloscope with two hair lines intersecting at the middle. A small red dot, representing the rocket, should have been set exactly at the intersection. It wasn't. It was at the bottom of the 'scope, almost off the face altogether. _To hell with all engineers_, he snarled to himself. He would have to jockey the dot back to the center before the automatic controls would take over again. If he failed, the rocket would be hopelessly off course, a tiny wanderer in space. The auxiliary chemical rockets, allowing for two degree corrections in the line of flight, would have to be used. They consisted of four sets at right angles to each other around the hull. By jockeying between them, he should be able to work the ship back. He pressed the key for firing the portside jets. The next moment he felt himself hurled from his position and thrown against the left-hand bulkhead. The cabin exploded into a pinwheel of stars that quickly faded into blackness. * * * * * His head hurt and something that felt very much like oozing blood was sticking his eyelids together. He wrenched them open and rubbed his head with his hands, then wiped the stickiness off on the pilot suit. It _was_ blood, flowing from a cut in his scalp. Judging from the cabin, he had lost quite a bit. But the cut was of secondary importance. He clawed his way back to the oscilloscope. The spot on the face had moved way over to the other side of the scope. He braced himself into position so that the sudden acceleration wouldn't affect him again. He pressed the key very lightly again and waited for the dot to shift. Sweat collected on his nose and stayed there. He shook his head and a spatter of drops flew off. The dot on the scope shifted--too much. He felt weak. This was going to be a precision job; the slightest pressure on the firing stud might prove to be too much again. He'd have to jockey it back and forth until, by sheer luck, he hit the center of the scope. He could do it--but it would take time. Five hours later a worn out, nervous Whiteford left the control panel and drifted wearily over to the hammock. He was dead tired--so tired he couldn't sleep. * * * * * It was the thirteenth day out.