what I said ... 'To its warm glow, like our home together.'"

His hand reached out, and trembling slightly, the fingers grasped, and fumbled, and clutched at air. The glass shattered prettily, spilling its golden life on the unalterable stone throat of the hearth.

And they stood there, hands untouching. Watching the glistening fragments trap the last warm glow of the fire.

"Enough, enough," a voice said. "You will rechannel your thoughts, Captain Hastings. There is another day in time."

The screen misted, and the veils swirled.

"March eleventh ... on a ship ... a glazed splinter in blackness...."

The curtains quivered.

"Men gather tight against the void ... a clarinet wails ... there is the smell of sweat...."

Kitson and Holmes were doing a dance. They had their breechskins rolled over their knees, and four grapefruit tied to their fronts.

"Take it off ... take it off ... take it off!" The men rode a ground swell of tinny music. Rhythm stamped out in the pattern of magnetic boots fought with the sucking sound of beer cans. The air curled with smoke.

Above their heads a hatch opened, and the Captain's legs appeared, descending ladderwise. Abruptly, the melee subsided into leftover clarinet tones.

"Mr. Kitson."

Kitson brought himself to attention, his grapefruit swinging. "Sir?"

"I've been informed there was news from home." The men looked at one another.

"Only the broadcast from the Sector, sir. Nothing unusual."

"You took it down on the tapes?"

"Yes, sir."

"I should like to hear it." From one corner a reluctant shuffling replaced the lately dead downbeats. The reproducer scratched badly.

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