These men are just reaching their conclusions of condemnation. Maybe, now, I'll learn more than I

ever wanted to know.

The conviction has hold of the Commander, I'm sure, though he hides it well. His face is more

pale, his smile more strained, his primary expression the one you see before the body goes into the coffin.

This is a ship manned by zombies, by corpses going through life-motions while awaiting cremation.

We died the moment that destroyer sent her call.

We know she did. Fisherman caught the leakover of an instel link during second attack.

Nicastro is listless because his revelation came early.

"Five minutes."

"Take care, Fearless." I'm sure we won't meet again. "Make yourself a home here." I ease him back

into the hammock.

A syrupy silence has swamped Weapons. The gunners have had time to mourn themselves.

They don't seem afraid. Just resigned or apathetic. I suppose that's because they've been waiting

for so long. Why panic in the face of the inevitable?

Fear is a function of hope. The bigger the hope, the greater the fear. There's no fear where hope doesn't exist. I park myself in Ops.

The general alarm sounds briefly.

"This's the Commander. We're going norm to clear a jammed missile elevator. EVA is required. All compartments will remain prepared for extended Climb. Mr. Piniaz, sustain your accumulators at minimum charge. Mr. Bradley, maintain internal temperature at the lowest tolerable level. Scrub atmosphere. Empty and clean all auxiliary human waste receptacles. Distribute combat rations for three days. Mr. Varese, Mr. Piniaz, select your working parties. Suit them and brief them. Mr.

Westhause, take us down when they're ready."

We go norm in the depths of an interstellar abyss. The nearest star flames three light-years distant. The universe is an inkwell with a handful of light motes populating its walls. It's a forceful reminder of the vastness of existence, of just how far beyond the Climber's walls other realities lie.

The constraints of concerted activity nibble away at the pandemic gloom. Embers of hope and fear begin to glow. My belief in my immortality revives. The big goal, survival, looks more and more attainable as the little problems come to successful conclusions.

When you think about it, how would God Himself find us amid all this nothing?

There isn't much for me to do. Visual watch is a waste of time. Fisherman will spot any traffic long before I could. To kill time I help Buckets with the honeypots. A minor morale builder.

Having finished, I feel a sense of accomplishment. It segues over into the bigger picture. I get this feeling of having yanked old Death's beard with impunity.

The Seven missile is solidly wedged. A riser arm has to be removed from the lift linkage before the missile can be manhandled into proper alignment. The riser arm and related hardware then have to be reinstalled. Only afterward can the missile be elevated into the firing rack in the launch bay.

Piniaz wants to replace the entire riser assembly with another taken from the number two elevator.

He's afraid the arm is warped and will jam again when he tries to elevate the Eleven missile.

"Negative," the Commander says to the proposal. "We're pushing our luck now. We can't stay put long enough. Use the old arm. How long for that?"

"Five hours," Chief Holtsnider says from Launch Three. The Chief doesn't belong out there. That's Missileman's work. Piniaz disagrees. He wants his best man on the job. He says Chief Missileman Bath doesn't have enough EVA experience.

"My ass, five hours. You've got two. Get done or walk home. Mr. Varese, your men just volunteered to help Chief Holtsnider. Two hours."

Varese had Gentemann and Kinder out examining the torus plates touched by the other firm's beam.

They're in the lock, coming back. They do colorful things with the language when Varese tells them to turn around. I use my camera to watch them glide out the safety lines to Launch Three.

Kinder and Gentemann are Canaanites. They have homes and families. It doesn't seem right to risk them. Gentemann is a sensible choice, though. He's the ship's Machinist.

They realign the Seven missile in forty minutes. Eleven isn't jammed. It lifts to ready without difficulty. Holtsnider studies the riser arm. He says it should lift if it's properly adjusted.

"Commander!"

Fisherman's shout rocks the ship.

Junghaus has been distracted by die working party. He hasn't been watching his screen.

"Goddamned! That mother's really coming!" Throdahl yelps.

"Varese!" the Commander shouts. "CT shift. Mr. West-hause, all departments, stand by for Emergency Climb."

"Commander..." Varese protests. Five men are outside. Their chances are grim if they slip out of the field or the ship stays up long.

"Now, Lieutenant." I can't tell if he's growling at Varese or Westhause. The astrogator is the sick color of old ivory piano keys.

Fisherman's screen looks bad.

"Right down our throats. Couldn't miss us if they were blind." The Old Man has done his sums. He's balancing five lives against forty-four. The men won't like it but they'll live long enough to bitch. "Shitty fucking luck."

That damned ship is going to land in our pocket. Fisherman, where the hell was your mind? Why the shit didn't you have your buzzer on?

The frightened questions from the working party end abruptly when we hit hyper. Radio is useless here. Nor is there anything when we flash into the ghost abode. The men remain silent. They exchange guarded glances.

Holtsnider comes through on the intercom links used by inspection personnel in wetdock. A quick thinker, the Chief. His voice is calm. It has a relaxing effect.

"Operations, working party. Commander, how long will we stay in Climb?" Fear underlies Holtsnider's words, but he's in control. He's a good soldier. He sticks to his job and lets a narrow focus see him through the tight places.

"Give me that," the Commander says softly. "I'll cut it as short as I can, Chief. We've been jumped by a singleship. We'll drop back when we have her going into her turn. Be ready to come in.

How're you doing out there?"

"I think we lost Haesler, Commander. He was clowning on tether. The rest of us are in the launch bay."

Poor Haesler. Floating free nine lights from nowhere. The ship gone. Must be scared shitless right now.

"How's your oxygen, Chief?"

"Manolakos is down to a half hour. We can share if we have to. Say an hour."

"Good enough. Hang on." Mutedly, "Mr. Westhause, go norm as soon as your numbers show her going away."

"Fourteen minutes, Commander."

"We go norm in mikes fourteen, Chief," the Old Man repeats for Holtsnider's benefit. "We won't have a big window. Start Manolakos in now. Safety line him with the man next shortest on oxygen.

The rest of you double-check that Eleven bird. Then start in too. Don't waste time. We're borrowing it now. We'll have to do some fancy dancing to pick up Haesler and dodge this singleship, too."

"Understood, Commander. I'll keep this line open."