shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in the chair.

"Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?"

"True enough." Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closed door, lowered his voice. "It'll cost me my job, but that girl in there has to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landed on a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or she dies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital, I'm not too confident of that patching job." He pulled a pipe from a jacket pocket. "So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... and that wasn't meant to be funny!"

Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.

"Rat has the right idea," Roberds continued, "but I had already thought of it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there all night tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... and hell of a long, grinding hop it will be!"

The nurse came out of the door.

"How is she?" Roberds asked.

"Sleeping," Gray whispered. "But sinking...."

"We can take off at dawn, I think." He filled the pipe and didn't look at her. "You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock."

"I can take it." Suddenly she smiled, wanly. "I was with the Fleet. How long will it take?"

"Eight days, in that ship."

Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Peterson was harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small ship meant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days in that untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl and Gladney.

"Who was that ... man? The one you put out?" Gray asked.

"We call him Rat," Roberds said.

She didn't ask why. She said: "Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean? What is his record?"

Peterson opened his mouth.

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