He's done. He's shot his last round. But restless banks of smoke still brew around him. In a weary voice, he asks, "How long, Mr. Westhause?"

We're making a final, brief hyper fly. Skipping in millisecond jumps. Keeping the missiles

confused.

"Two minutes thirty... five seconds. Commander."

Strange, that Westhause. Unshakable. Still as professional as the day we boarded. Someday he'll

command a Climber with the cool of the Old Man.

"Chief Nicastro, give us a separation countdown. Throdahl, give Command another squirt on our intentions. Mr. Westhause will give you the orbital data. Use Emergency Two."

What will the missiles do when their target splits five ways? Three missiles. Somebody is going to

make it.

Give me a break, ye gods of war.

There's a chance. Not a good one, but a chance. One small point going our way. Those three doom- stalkers can't be controlled by their masters. They're dependent on their own dull-witted brains.

Which is why we've stayed ahead this long.

My stomach constricts ever more tightly. Fear. The moment of truth is roaring toward us.

We've passed some barrier the enemy won't yet hazard. Maybe Planetary Defense has maintained a tight death pocket round TerVeen. Only those three killer imbeciles continue dogging our trail.

On camera. There's TerVeen. Battered all to hell, but still in business, a spider spinning webs of

fire.

The Climber zigzags. Westhause and Varese exchange curses. Final seconds before orbit.

I'll say this. When you're scared shitless it's hard to concentrate on anything else.

Write. Keep your hands busy. Anything for a distraction.

Nicastro's soft voice drones, "... nine... eight... seven..." Six-five-four-three-two-one-ZERO!

Bang!

You're dead.

No. I'm not. Not yet.

Barrages of sound rip through the hull as the explosive bolts go. Perfectly. God bless. Something

is working right. The force slams me from the side. Our rocket pack blasts us away from the rest of the ship.

"We have separation and ignition on Ops and Engineering, Commander." How very perceptive.

Head twist. Glare at the tank. Where are those missiles? Can't tell. The antennae were mounted on the torus. We're flying blind....

Thrust ends. The plug-ups break it up around the Weapons bulkhead. I feel lightheaded-----Free- fall. No artificial gravity.

The Commander drifts out of his seat.

The serials are continuing in the rest of the ship. Ship's Services will be last to separate. The din there must be murderous. Charlie, I hope you make it. Kriegshauser, you never did get back with that name.

"We have separation on Weapons, Commander."

I still have one outside camera. I watch the rockets flame. Jump the magnification. There's the

torus, wobbling, spinning, dwindling rapidly, illuminated by the rockets. It shows silvery patches where beams licked it.

The Climber slides out of view. A crescent of Canaan appears. We're tumbling toward the dawn. I

hope Rescue can handle the end-over-end.

The sun rises. It's brilliant, majestic, as it crawls over the curve of the world we've lusted after so long.

Where are those missiles?

There's something special about a mother star materializing from behind a daughter planet. It

fills me with the awe of creation. I feel it now, even though death bays at my heels. This, and perhaps clouds, are the supreme arguments for the existence of a Creator.

Time to check the torus again.

My God! A new sun!...

Berberian says, "The torus. First missile took the torus." His voice is a toad's croak.

Well, naturally. The torus is the biggest target. It'll be over in seconds.... Sighs all through

the compartment. A diminution in tension. We have a fifty-fifty chance now.

"Hey! Torus again!" Berberian shouts. "Goddamned second fucking missile took the torus, too!"

"Let's have proper reports," the Commander admonishes.

I could howl for joy.

And yet... there's that third bird, lagging the other two. Big black monster with my name engraved

on its teeth.

Got to get Canaan on screen. I want a world in my eyes when I go.

What a sweet world it is. What a beautiful world. I've never wanted any woman, not even Sharon, as

badly as I want that world.

"Three won't target on the torus," Laramie says.

"Shut your cocksucker, will you?" Rose snarls.

Piniaz will try with his one laser, but it won't be enough. He's failed twice already, hasn't he?

Nevertheless, the Old Man has won. There will be survivors.

If Fisherman's Devil exists, his favorite torture must be guilt. Three more compartments out

there, and me here hoping the hammer falls on one of them. Part of me is utterly without shame.

A flash brightens my screen. "Gone." I stammer getting the word out.

"Who?" a voice demands.

"Berberian? Throdahl?" the Commander asks.

Seconds pass. I scribble frantically, then wait, pencil poised. Throdahl says, "Commander, I can't

get a response from Ship's Services."

"Ah, Charlie. Shit."

"That's it, men," the Commander says. "Secure. Mr. Yanevich, take charge." He pauses to knock

ashes from his pipe. "Emergency watch bill."

Kriegshauser. Vossbrink. Charlie Bradley. Light. Shingle-decker. Tahtaburun. All gone? No. Some

were in Engineering.

Poor Charlie. He had a future. Crapped out first patrol. Welcome to the Climbers, kid.

I'll mourn him. I liked him.

Wonder if Kriegshauser made it. He hated being away from his little galley.