“Ought-five-nine—­” That was Jellico.

Dane found himself suddenly unable to watch.  He shut his eyes and braced himself against the vertigo of snap-out.  It came and he whirled sickeningly through unstable space.  Then he was sitting in the laced Com-tech’s seat looking at Rip.

Runnels of sweat streaked Shannon’s brown face.  There was a damp patch darkening his tunic between his shoulder blades, a patch which it would take both of Dane’s hands to cover.

For a moment he did not raise his head to look at the vision plate which would tell him whether or not they had made it.  But when he did familiar constellations made the patterns they knew.  They were out—­and they couldn’t be too far off the course Wilcox had plotted.  There was still the system run to make—­but snap-out was behind them.  Rip gave a deep sigh and buried his head in his hands.

With a throb of fear Dane unhooked his safety belt and hurried over to him.  When he clutched at Shannon’s shoulder the Astrogator-apprentice’s head rolled limply.  Was Rip down with the illness too?  But the other muttered and opened his eyes.

“Does your head ache?” Dane shook him.

“Head?  No—­” Rip’s words came drowsily.  “Jus’ sleepy—­so sleepy—­”

He did not seem to be in pain.  But Dane’s hands were shaking as he hoisted the other out of his seat and half carried-half led him to his cabin, praying as he went that it was only fatigue and not the disease.  The ship was on auto now until Jellico as pilot set a course—­

Dane got Rip down on the bunk and stripped off his tunic.  The fine-drawn face of the sleeper looked wan against the foam rest, and he snuggled into the softness like a child as he turned over and curled up.  But his skin was clear—­it was real sleep and not the plague which had claimed him.

Impulse sent Dane back to the control cabin.  He was not an experienced pilot officer, but there might be some assistance he could offer the Captain now that Rip was washed out, perhaps for hours.

Jellico hunched before the smaller computer, feeding pilot tape into its slot.  His face was a skull under a thin coating of skin, the bones marking it sharply at jaw, nose and eye socket.

“Shannon down?” His voice was a mere whisper of its powerful self, he did not turn his head.

“He’s just worn out, sir,” Dane hastened to give reassurance.  “The marks aren’t on him.”

“When he comes around tell him the co-ords are in,” Jellico murmured.  “See he checks course in ten hours—­”

“But, sir—­” Dane’s protest failed as he watched the Captain struggle to his feet, pulling himself up with shaking hands.  As Thorson reached forward to steady the other, one of those hands tore at tunic collar, ripping loose the sealing—­

There was no need for explanation—­the red splotch signaled from Jellico’s sweating throat.  He kept his feet, holding out against the waves of pain by sheer will power.  Then Dane had a grip on him, got him away from the computer, hoping he could keep him going until they reached Jellico’s cabin.