Carnavon had no intention of sweating out a long, slow crossing to the hulk, so he ran the lock pressure up high and waited until the outer hatch was lined up with the derelict liner. Then with a sudden movement, he spun the wheel and popped the outer portal. Pop and Carnavon shot into space like grotesque _bolas_. The _Thunderbird_ loomed up ahead. Pop kept his mouth shut and his eyes open. He saw more than an old man might be expected to see, too. For instance he saw that Carnavon--cautious though he might be--had neglected to take an extra magazine for his blaster. That meant that there were just three shots in the weapon. One of which, Pop figured, would be used against the vault of the scuttled liner. Not that the old man was making any plans. He was still too weighted by his fear and his sense of impotence for that. He merely noticed, and prayed to the gods of space that one of those shots in the blaster might not be meant for him. As they drew near the liner, Pop felt nausea churning his stomach. The ship was surrounded by satellites. Space-bloated bodies, naked and misshapen in the bitter light of the dim sun that reflected off the pitted flanks of the burst vessel. Spread-eagled grotesquely, the corpses circled their ship, puffy things of horror with staring eyes and extended fingers. Other things, too, circled the hulk. Small, commonplace items. A clock, a chair, shattered crockery. Tiny, inconsequential things, all mutely accusing--all muttering silently that their ship had been betrayed by someone who should have protected her. Pop glanced over at Carnavon. Through the steelglass bubble of his helmet he could see the wrecker's face. There was no expression on it other than concentration--and greed. Pop knew about greed. He'd lived with greed and degradation a lot in his last few years. He hated Carnavon even more now for having reminded him--but he was still too sick with futility to do more than tell himself that he had done all he could do. He _had_ called the Guard, after all. And then, for an awful moment he found himself regretting that he had done even that and thereby lost all hope of life.... Their magnetic shoes touched the _Thunderbird's_ hull with a sound faintly carried through the air in their suits. They stood on the curving surface, etched in black against the starry sky. A few feet away from them, the terminator was inching toward them as the derelict rotated slowly. * * * * *