bly laugh, but I cannot. To me this is
no laughing matter. I find myself jumping at the slightest noise, an
increase in the wind, the snap of an expanding hull plate, the crackle
of static over my radio. I whirl around to see who, or _what_, is
watching me. My skin crawls and prickles as though I were covered with
ants. My mind is filled with black, inchoate dread. In three words, _I'm
scared stiff_! Yet there is nothing tangible--nothing I should be
frightened about, and this terrifies me even more. For I know where this
continual fear and worry can lead--to what ends this incessant
stimulation can reach.

* * * * *

Under pressure my body reacts, preparing me to fight or flee. My
adrenals pump hormones into my bloodstream, stimulating my heart and my
sympathetic nervous system, making glucose more available to my muscles.
My peripheral capillaries dilate. Intestinal activity stops as blood is
channeled into the areas which my fear and my glands decide will need it
most. I sweat. My vision blurs. All the manifold changes of the fight or
flight syndrome are mobilized for instant action. But my body cannot be
held in this state of readiness. The constant stimulation will
ultimately turn my overworked adrenal glands into a jelly-like mess of
cystic quivering goo. My general adaptation syndrome will no longer
adapt. And I will die.

But I am not dead yet. And I have certain advantages. I am intelligent.
I know what faces me. And I can adjust. That is one of the outstanding
characteristics of the human race--the ability to adjust to our
environment, or, failing that, to adjust our environment to us. In
addition, I have my hands, tools, and materials to work with here in the
lifeboat. And finally I am desperate! I should be able to accomplish
something. There must be ...

* * * * *

... But it is not going well. There are too many parts which I do not
know by sight. If I were a more competent electronicist I would have had
the parts assembled now and would be sending a beacon signal clear
across this sector. The pressure hasn't been any help. It doesn't get
greater, but it has become more insisting--more demanding. I seem to
feel that it _wants_ something, that its direction has become more
channelized. The conviction is growing within me that I am destined to
be _absorbed_.

The fear with which I live is a constant thing. And I still keep looking
for my e