hile.

There is a single thread of knowledge connecting this moment with the
last: M'Clare's dead.

This is the central factor: I seem to have been debating it with
myself for a very long time.

I suppose the truth is simply that the Universe never guarantees
anything; life, or permanence, or that your best will be good enough.

The rule is that you have to pick yourself up and go on; and lying
here in the dark is not doing it.

I turn on my side and see a cluster of self-luminous objects including
a light switch. I reach for it.

How did I get into a hospital?

On second thoughts it is a cabin in the ship, or rather two of them
with the partition torn out, I can see the ragged edge of it. There is
a lot of paraphernalia around; I climb out to have a look.

Holy horrors what's happened? Someone borrowed my legs and put them
back wrong; my eyes also are not functioning well, the light is set at
Minimum and I am still dazzled. I see a door and make for it to get
Explanations from somebody.

Arrived, I miss my footing and stumble against the door and on the
other side someone says "Hello, Lizzie. Awake at last?"

I think my heart stops for a moment. I can't find the latch. I am
vaguely aware of beating something with my fists, and then the door
gives, sticks, gives again and I stumble through and land on all fours
the other side of it.

Someone is calling: "Lizzie! Are you hurt? Where the devil have they
all got to? Liz!"

I sit up and say, "They said you were _dead_!"

"_Who_ did?"

"I ... I ... someone in the hold. I said How's M'Clare? and they said
you were dead."

M'Clare frowns and says gently, "Come over here and sit down quietly
for a bit. You've been dreaming."

Have I? Maybe the whole thing was a dream--but if so how far does it
go? Going down in the heli? The missile? The boat? Crawling through
the black tunnel of a broken ship?

No, because he is sitting in a sort of improvised chaise longue and
his legs are evidently strapped in place under the blanket; he is
fumbling with the fastening or something.

* * * * *

I say "Hey! Cut that out!"

He straightens up irritably.

"Don't you start that, Lysistrata. I've been suffering the attentions
of the damnedest collection of amateur nurses who ever handled a
thermocouple, for over a week. I don't deny they've been very
efficient, but when it comes to--"

Over a _week_?

He nods. "My dear Lizzie, we left