he captain
was worried about possible repercussions from the governments of both
Terra and Flimbot, in spite of Bridey's assurances.

And he could not help but feel a pang when the young humanoid expired in
his arms, murmuring, "Do not grieve for me, soul-mates. In the midst of
life, there is life...."

"Funny," Smullyan said, with one of his disconcerting returns to a
professional manner, "all the other forms seemed perfectly healthy. Why
did this one go like that? Almost as if he _wanted_ to die."

"He was too good for this ship, that's what," the radio operator said,
glaring at the captain. "Too fine and brave and--and noble."

"Yes," Harkaway agreed. "What truly sensitive soul could exist in a
stultifying atmosphere like this?"

All the officers glared at the captain. He glared back with right good
will. "How come you gentlemen are still with us?" he inquired. "One
would have thought you would have perished of pure sensibility long
since, then."

"It's not nice to talk that way," the chief petty officer burst out,
"not with him lying there not yet cold.... Ah," he heaved a long sigh,
"we'll never see his like again."

"Ay, that we won't," agreed the crew, huddled in the corridor outside
the captain's cabin.

Iversen sincerely hoped not, but he forbore to speak.

* * * * *

Since Bridey had reached the ultimate point in his life cycle, it seemed
certain that he was not going to change into anything else and so he was
given a spaceman's burial. Feeling like a put-upon fool, Captain Iversen
read a short prayer as Bridey's slight body was consigned to the vast
emptiness of space.

Then the airlock clanged shut behind the last mortal remains of the
ill-fated extraterrestrial and that was the end of it.

But the funereal atmosphere did not diminish as the ship forged on
toward Earth. Gloomy days passed, one after the other, during which no
one spoke, save to issue or dispute an order. Looking at himself one day
in the mirror on his cabin wall, the captain realized that he was
getting old. Perhaps he ought to retire instead of still dreaming of a
new command and a new crew.

And then one day, as he sat in his cabin reading the Spaceman's Credo,
the lights on the _Herringbone_ went out, all at once, while the
constant hum of the motors died down slowly, leaving a strange,
uncomfortable silence. Iversen found himself suspended weightless in the
dark, for the gravity, of course,