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dead sun was just discernible, a flattened darkness. It seemed to be swelling visibly. Whether that was a
real effect or not, Sver-dlov felt the dread of falling, the no-weight horrors, like a lump in his belly.
He hadn't been afraid of null-gee since he was a child. In his cadet days, he had invented more pranks
involving free fall than any two other boys. But he had never been cut off from home in this fashion.
Krasna had never been more than an interplanetary flight or an interstellar Jump away.
And that cookbook pilot would starve out here to save his worthless ship?
Sverdlov unbuckled his harness. He kicked himself across the little control room, twisted among the
pipes and wheels and dials of the fuel-feed section like a swimming fish, and came to the tool rack. He
chose a long wrench and arrowed for the shaftway. His fury had chilled into resolution:I don't want to
kill him, but he'll have to be made to see reason. And quickly, or we really will crash!
He was rounding the transmitter chamber when decelera-tion resumed. He had been going up by the
usual process, grab a rung ahead of you and whip your weightless body beyond. Suddenly two
Terrestrial gravities snatched him.
He closed fingers about one of the bars. His left arm straightened, with a hundred and ninety kilos
behind. The hand tore loose. He let go the wrench and caught with his right arm, jamming it between a
rung and the shaft wall. The im-pact smashed across his biceps. Then his left hand clawed fast and he
hung. He heard the wrench skid past the gyro housing, hit a straight dropoff, and clang on the after
radiation shield.
Gasping, he found a lower rung with his feet and sagged for a minute. The right arm was numb, until the
pain woke in it. He flexed the fingers. Nothing broken.
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But he was supposed to be in harness. Nakamura's calcula-tions might demand spurts of ten or fifteen
gravities, if the accelerators could still put out that much. The fear of being smeared across a bulkhead
jolted into Sverdlov. He scrambled over the rungs. It was nightmarishly like climbing through glue. After a
thousand years he burst into the living quarters.
MACLAREN sat up in one of the bunks. "No further, please," he said.
The deceleration climbed a notch. His weight was iron on Sverdlov's shoulders. He started back into the
shaft. "No!" cried Ryerson. But it was Maclaren who flung off bunk harness and climbed to the deck.
The brown face gleamed wet, but Maclaren smiled and said: "Didn't you hear me?"
Sverdlov grunted and re-entered the shaft, both feet on a rung.I can make it up to the bubble and get
my hands on Nakamura's throat. Maclaren stood for a gauging instant, as Sverdlov's foot crept toward
the next rung. Finally the physi-cist added with a sneer in the tone: "When a technic says sit, you squat . .
. colonial."
Sverdlov halted. "What was that?" he asked slowly.
"I can haul you out of there if I must, you backwoods pig," said Maclaren, "but I'd rather you came to
me.
Sverdlov wondered, with an odd quick sadness, why he re-sponded. Did an Earthling's yap make so
much difference? He decided that Maclaren would probably make good on that promise to follow him
up the shaft, and under this weight a fight on the rungs could kill them both. Therefore Sverdlov's brain
seemed as heavy as his bones. He climbed back and stood slumping on the observation deck. "Well?" he
said.
Maclaren folded his arms. "Better get into a bunk," he ad-vised.
Sverdlov lumbered toward him. In a shimmery wisp of tu-nic, the Earthling looked muscular enough, but
he probably massed ten kilos less, and lacked several centimeters of the Krasnan's height and reach. A
few swift blows would disable him, and it might still not be too late to stop Nakamura.
"Put up your fists," said Sverdlov hoarsely.
Maclaren unfolded his arms. A sleepy smile crossed his face. Sverdlov came in, swinging at the eagle
beak. Maclaren's head moved aside. His hands came up, took Sverdlov's arm, and applied a cruel
leverage. Sverdlov gasped, broke free by sheer strength, and threw a blow to the ribs. Maclaren stopped
that fist with an edge-on chop at the wrist behind it; almost, Sver-dlov thought he felt the bones crack.
They stood toe to toe. Sverdlov drew back the other fist. Maclaren punched him in the groin. The
Krasnan doubled over in a jag of anguish. Mac-laren rabbit-punched him. Sverdlov went to one knee.
Mac-laren kicked him in the solar plexus. Sverdlov fell over and struck the floor with three gravities to
help.
Through a wobbling, ringing darkness, he heard the Earth-ling: "Help me with this beef, Dave." And he
felt himself dragged across the floor, somehow manhandled into a bunk and harnessed.
His mind returned. Pain stabbed and flickered through him. He struggled to sit up. "That was an
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