The room swam for a second in Donal’s blurred eyes. He felt a momentary surge of nausea; and, on the heels of it, heard someone over at the panel, retching. He blazed up inside, forcing an anger to fight the threatening sickness.

It’s in your mind—it’s all in your mind—he slapped the thought at himself like a curse. The room steadied; the sickness retreated a little way.

“Time—” It was Bannerman, calling in a half-gasping voice from the panel. Donal blinked and tried to focus on the scene in the Eye. The rank odor of his own sweat was harsh in his nostrils—or was it simply that the room was permeated with the stink of all their sweating?

In the Eye he could make out that four ships had come through on this last run. As he watched, the fifth winked into existence.

“Once more!” he called, hoarsely. “In at a lower level, this time.” There was a choked, sobbing-like sound from the direction of the panel; but he deliberately did not turn his head to see who it was.

Again the phase shift.

Blur of planet below. A sharp shock. Another.

Again the phase shift.

The control room—full of mist? No—his own eyes. Blink them. Don’t be sick.

“Damage?”

No answer.

“Damage!”

“—Light hit. Aft. Sealed—”

“Once more.”

“Captain—” Bannerman’s voice, “we can’t make it again. One of our ships—”

Check in the Eye. Images dancing and wavering—yes, only four ships.

“Which one?”

“I think—” Bannerman, gasping, “Mendez.”

“Once more.”

“Captain, you can’t ask—”

“Give me a hookup then.” Pause. “You hear me? Give me a hookup.”

“Hookup—” some officer’s voice. “You’re hooked up, captain.”

“All right, this is Captain Graeme.” Croak and squeak. Was that his voice speaking. “I’m calling for volunteers—one more run. Volunteers only. Speak up, anyone who’ll go.”

Long pause.

“Shai Dorsai!”

“Shai el Man!—any others?”

“Sir—” Bannerman— “The other two ships aren’t receiving.”

Blink at Eye. Focus. True. Two of three ships there yawing out of line.

“Just the two of us then. Bannerman?”

“At” — croaking — “your orders, sir.”

“Make the run.”

Pause . . .

Phase shift!

Planet, whirling — shock — dark space. Can’t black out now—

“Pull her out of it!” Pause. “Bannerman!”

Weakly responding: “Yes sir—”

PHASE SHIFT

—Darkness . . .

“—Up!”

It was a snarling, harsh, bitter whisper in Donal’s ear. He wondered, eyes-closed, where it was coming from. He heard it again, and once again. Slowly it dawned on him that he was saying it to himself.

He fought his eyes open.