with the devices in the medocenter, but they would have taken care of anything that happened as a result—if he had reached her in time. It was unforeseen, this business of her walking into the shaft. No one was to blame. No one, that is, except himself.

Clifton looked up from beside his wife to the circle of light at the top of the shaft. "All right," he called out, "I'm to blame, do you hear? I did it. She could be alive except for me."

There was no answer to his self-indictment.

"And where does it leave me?" he shouted bitterly. "I'm the one who has to live and I've got nine years to go. Nine years to Ostarpa and the small colony there. What am I supposed to do?"

He never remembered later how long he stood in the shaft shouting until he was hoarse, only recalling that at one point the walls seemed to close in on him and the ship seemed filled with an oppressive strangeness, and he was clawing his way up the ladder to the top. And there were blurred images of walls and rooms as he ran about the ship, and he remembered his jerking open the liquor cabinet and the stupor that followed.

It was days later when he sobered and, insulated by the intervening unreality, managed to dispose of her body in a waste chute.

Then he moved to the office and saw that it was the 371st day and looked at the log to see that he had stopped making entries on the 363rd day. He examined the other books. Karen's precise handwriting had recorded her final readings on that day, too. Now he would have to do her work as well as his own.

Clifton sighed, sat at his desk and, in a steady hand, wrote in the log:

Karen rose in her sleep, walked to and fell down the right aft third level ventilating shaft and was killed. Reached her approximately three hours after the incident. She could not be saved.

Clifton West, Captain

Skipping to the 371st day, he wrote:

Sent Karen's body out the ventral waste chute.

He sat studying the words, then added:

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