"BELAY IT!" Lona shouted, and a sudden, eerie silence fell. Dar drew in a long, trembling breath. Whatever had happened, it was really bad "They were waiting for us," Lona said into the hush. "As soon as we fired up, their sensors locked their battle computer on us and let loose a ball of pure energy-several, really; the first few just vaporized the junk between us and them. The last one knocked off our tail section. As it is, we're lucky-if I hadn't swerved to avoid a rock, they'd have caught us right in this cabin."

"They're rising again." Whitey had his head craned back against the viewport, staring upward.

"Sure." Lona shrugged. "They didn't just shear away our engines-they blew away our reactor, too. There's no power left for them to 'sense.'

Besides, why should they bother hunting down the pieces? They know we're dead now, anyway." Sam strangled a sob.

"Take heart," Father Marco said sternly. "We aren't dead."

"We do have emergency power," Lona agreed. "It'll keep recycling air while it lasts-and the sun's radiation'll keep us warm, if we block the portholes on the far side. And we have a couple of weeks' rations."

"Will the power last that long?" Sam's voice was hollow. Lona was silent.

"It will, if we don't talk much and can do without light," Whitey answered. "Of course, we can't go anywhere."

Father Marco grunted in surprise. "I didn't know you knew any physics."

"I was an engineer before I was a bard." Dar could hear Whitey's grin.

"Who else could make enough sense out of this civilization to set it to music? But I'm a gambler, too." Dar felt the dread coalescing into terror. "Just what kind of gamble did you have in mind?" Father Marco's voice echoed with foreboding.

"Well, we can't go to help," Whitey mused, "so we've got to make it come to us."

Dar cleared his throat, which pushed the fear back down. "You're talking about a distress signal."

"It'd give us a little chance, at least," Whitey answered. "Without it, we're dead-unless you can arrange a miracle, Father"

"I'm afraid my connections don't quite run that high." The priest sounded amused. "Even if St. Vidicon reaches out to us, we've got to give him a handle to grab us by-some sort of action to put us into the ring of coincidence."

"How much energy would it leave us?" Dar dreaded the answer "If it's going to be strong enough to do us any good, we'll have to put half our remaining power into it," Lona answered. "A week's worth."

Dar wet his lips. "That gives us a week for somebody to hear us and get here." They were all silent.

A week! Something shrieked within Dae Only a week to live! I've never even been in love!

"We don't really have any choice, do we?" Sam said softly. The cabin was silent again.

Then Sam heaved herself upright and leaned forward to the communications panel. "All right. How do you want it?"

Breath hissed out in a sigh of consensus.

"Broadband." Lona slapped keys, routing the emergency power to communications. "Just the traditional Mayday, with our coordinates."

Sam leaned forward to the audio pickup and thumbed the transmit key.

"Don't give the name of the ship," Whitey said quickly.

Sam hesitated, then spoke. "Mayday, Mayday! Distressed spacer at 10:32:47 V.E., 5:22 below P.E. Mayday, Mayday! Moribund!"

Moribund. . . . "Death-bound." Dar felt the dread wrap around him, creeping up his spine.

Sam shut down her board.

"Leave trickle-power on," Lona advised. "If salvage does come, they'll need contact-a second of arc is a big distance out here."

Sam hesitated, and Dar could almost hear her thoughts- how much life-time would they lose to that trickle? But I.C. grains drew only a few milliwatts per hour, and a rescuer a mile away who couldn't spot them was no better than no rescuer at all. Sam nodded, cracked one slider, and left her main on.

The cabin was silent again; then Lona said, "Now we wait. . . ."

. . . for death. Dar completed the sentence in his head. "What do we do with our minds?"

The silence became acutely uncomfortable.

Then Father Marco stirred. "I do know a little about meditation.

Would anyone like a mantra?"

"Burro-boat FCC 651919 to distressed spacer Respond, please."

Dar sat bolt upright, staring at the first pair of eyes he saw- Lena's, fortunately. "So soon? Where was he, just around the corner?"

"It's been two hours. ..."

"Even so. ..."

"Burro-boat, this is distressed spacer," Sam snapped into her pickup.

"Can you rescue?"

"Distressed spacer, I can rescue and am in your vicinity, but need transmission to home on. Please continue transmission of carrier wave."

"Burro-boat, will do. We await you anxiously." Sam locked down the "transmit" button, but covered the pickup with her hand and swiveled to face the others. "It doesn't have to be the Patrol, you know."

"If it is, we'll know in a minute." Whitey gave her a dry smile. "As soon as they get a locus on us, they'll blast us to vapor."

Sam flinched, and whirled back to her console. "No!" Lona snapped.

"It might be legit-and if it's not, I'd rather steam than starve, anyway!"

Sam hesitated, but she left the "transmit" button on. "And it could be honest," Father Marco pointed out. "The prospectors flit all over the belt in their burro-boats. Why shouldn't there have been one two hours away?" Lena's eyes glazed. "Well, the probabilities . . ." "Spare us," Whitey said quickly. "Have you been praying for St. Vidicon's help, Father?"

Father Marco squirmed. "It couldn't hurt, could it?" "Not at all. He might've stacked the deck in our favor." Whitey craned his neck, staring out the porthole. "Dar, take the starboard view. What do you see?"

"Just asteroids. . . . No, one of them's getting bigger . . . There!"

There was a concerted rush to the starboard portholes. "Is that a ship?" Dar gasped.

It was dingy gray, and it might've been a sphere once, but it was so pocked with crater dents that it looked just like any of the asteroids.

Two paraboloid dishes sprouted from its top, one round for radio and microwave, the other elongated, for radar. Below them, the hull sloped down to two huge windows; the miners liked naked-eye backup for their scanners. Below them, the hull kept sloping until it reached the loading bay: two huge holes, housing solenoids, for small bits of ore; below it, a "mouth" for big chunks. Beneath a bulbous belly hung two pairs of pincers, one fore and one aft, for grappling onto small asteroids that were two big for loading. From the aft section sprouted a spray of antennae that set up a force-field to prevent rearend collisons by small asteroids.

"It's beautiful," Sam breathed.

The burro-boat rotated, broadside-on to the Ray of Hope, and a small hatch opened in its side. A magentic grapple shot out, trailing a line. It clanged onto their hull.

"Distressed spacer," said the com console, "We are prepared for boarding."

Sam dived for the console. "Acknowledge, burro-boat. We'll just slide into our pressure suits, and be right over."

Whitey swung out a section of the wall. "I hope they left the suits when they mothballed this thing. . . . There they are!"

All five crowded around, feasting their eyes on their means of escape.

"Air?" Sam said doubtfully.

Dar snorted. "So hold your breath. It's only a hundred yards!" He hauled down a suit and handed it to Sam. "Ladies first."

"Male chauvinist! You go first!"

"All right, all right," Dar grumbled, clambering into the stiff fabric.

"Check my seals, will you? Y' know, something bothers me."

"You too, huh?" Whitey was sealing him in with a crisp, practiced touch. "You wouldn't be wondering why we haven't heard from the pilot?"

"Well, yes, now that you mention it. Or is it the custom here, to let the computers do the talking?"

"Definitely not," Lona assured him, sealing Sam into her suit. "Of course, there might not be a pilot."

"Could be-but not likely," Whitey grunted. "Didn't you hear the serial number? This is one of those new FCC brains- 'Faithful Cybernetic Companions,' programmed for extreme loyalty. They're not supposed to want to do anything without their owner's express command."

"I thought those were robot brains." Father Marco frowned. "What's it doing conning a ship?"

Whitey shrugged. "Can't say, Father. I do know that every scrap of junk and every used Terran part finds its way to the asteroid belt sooner or later, to get the last erg of usage out of it. ... There!" He slapped Dar on the shoulder; it sent him spinning in the free-fall of the powerless ship. "Go out and conquer, young fella!"

"I thought I was going to be rescued," Dar grumbled. "And why do I have to go alone?"

"Because a burro-boat's lock is only big enough for one at a time."

Whitey all but kicked him into the Ray of Hope's airlock. "Have a good trip-and try not to breathe!"

The door slammed behind him, and the other hatch was opening; and if he didn't go out there and try to swim through vacuum to the burro- boat, he'd be killing his four friends, who couldn't go into the airlock till he'd gone. He gulped down his panic and forced himself to step through.

He held onto the line with one hand, groping frantically at his waist for the suit's anchoring cables. There! It was a snap-hook with a swivel. He pulled it out; a strong line unreeled from somewhere inside his suit. He snapped the hook onto the line. Catching the overhead line, he pulled himself back against the Ray of Hope's side, bracing his feet and backing down into a crouch. Then he fixed his gaze on the burro-boat's airlock, took a deep breath, and-jumped as hard as he could.

He went shooting out along the line like a housewife's dry laundry in the first drops of rain. For a moment, he was tempted to try going faster by pulling himself hand-over-hand along the line; then he remembered that he was in vacuum, which meant no friction, but his gauntlets on the line would mean friction, and would probably slow him down as much as they speeded him up. So he hung on, arms outstretched in a swan dive-and began to enjoy it.

Then the burro-boat's side shot up at him, and he grabbed frantically for the line, remembering that he might have lost weight, but he hadn't lost mass-which meant inertia. If he didn't brake, fast, the next friend down the line would have to scrape a nice, thin layer of Mandra off the burro-boat before he could get into the airlock. The scream of improvised brakes squealed all through his suit, while the burro- boat's side kept rushing up at him, seeming to come faster and fastet Frantically, he doubled up, getting his feet and flexed knees between him and it. ...

Then he hit, with a jar that he swore knocked his teeth back into the gums. But, as he slowly straightened, he realized his joints were still working, and the stars that didn't fade from his vision were really asteroids sweeping past. Somehow, he'd made it-and all in one piece!

He breathed a brief, silent prayer of thanks and stepped gingerly through the hatch. When he was sure both of his feet were pressing down on solid metal, he let go of the line with one hand to grasp the rim of the hatchway; then he let go with the other, and pulled himself down into the nice, safe darkness of the interior. His elbow bumped a lever; irritated, he pushed it away-and the hatch swung shut behind him.

Darkness. Total. Complete.

That was when Dar learned what "claustrophobia" meant. He had to fight to keep himself from pounding on the nearest wall, screaming to be let out. It's just an airlock, he repeated to himself, over and over They can't let me out until it's filled with air. Just a few minutes. . . .

It seemed like an hour. He found out, later, that it was really forty-two seconds.

Then a green light glowed in the darkness. He lunged toward it, felt the wheel of the door-seal, wrenched it open, and tumbled into light, warmth, and . . . AIR! He twisted his helmet off, and inhaled a reek of rancid food, unwashed body, and a sanitation recycler that wasn't quite working right. They were the sweetest scents he'd ever smelled.

A chime rang behind him. He whirled about to see an amber light blinking next to the airlock. Of course-nobody else could come in until he shut the inside hatch! He slammed and dogged it shut-and realized he'd been hearing voices as soon as he'd come in; they were just now beginning to register.

"Consarn it, 'tain't none of my affair!" a gravelly voice ranted. "Now you turn this blasted tub around and get back to my claim!"

"But under the Distressed Spacers' Law," a calm, resonant voice replied, "you are required to render assistance to the crew of any imperiled ship."

"You've said that fifteen times, hang it, and I've given you fifteen good reasons why we shouldn't!"

"Three," the calm voice reminded, "five times each, and none of them sufficient."

"Any of 'em's good enough! 'Tain't none of our business- that's the best one of all!"

Dar finished shucking out of his space suit and racked it, then tiptoed along the companionway toward the voices.

"Totally inadequate," the other voice answered, unruffled. "The Distressed Spacers' Law specifically mentions that a distressed spaceman is the overriding concern of any who happen to be near enough to offer assistance."

"Overriding" was the key word; it made Dar suddenly certain as to who the calm voice belonged to. He peeked around the edge of the hatchway, and saw the burro-boat's cabin, a cramped space littered with ration containers and papers, dirty laundry, and smudges of oil and grease. It held two acceleration couches, a control console with six scanner screens, and a short, stocky man in a filthy, patched coverall, with matted hair and an unkempt, bushy beard.

"Jettison the law!" he yelled. "Common sense oughta tell you that! It's the Patrol's job to take care of a shipwreck!"

"Which was your second reason." The calm voice seemed to come from the control console. "The crew of the ship in question might be those whom the Patrol was pursuing."

"If they was, bad cess to 'em! Damn telepaths, poking their noses into other people's secrets! Who do they think they are, anyway?"

"Human beings," the voice answered, "and as much entitled to life as anyone else-especially since the Patrol has apparently not accused them of any crimes."

Dar decided he liked the unseen owner of the calm voice.

"Bein" a telepath's a crime, damn it! Don't you follow the news?"

"Only insofar as it is logical-which is to say, not very far at all. I fail to comprehend how a person can commit a crime by being born with an extra ability."

Neither did Dar-and it was definitely news, at least to him. Just how powerful were the people involved in the plot to overthrow the I.D.E., anyway?

Apparently, powerful enough to whip up a full-scale witchhunt, just for the purpose of catching his humble self. He realized the implications, and felt his knees dissolve.

" Tain't fer you or me to understand it-the goverment does, and that's enough. What-you figger you're smarter than the Executive Secretary and all them Electors put together?"