apsed, sighing into his radio. Pink tried to stand
and the ankle buckled. Horrified, he looked at his glove watch.

He had seventy seconds.

CHAPTER XXIII

Pink bellowed, "Jerry!" He yelled it so loudly that his ears protested
at the helmet echoes. Jerry said groggily, "Wha?"

"Stand up!"

Jerry sat up and at once fell flat again. "Judas priest, I can't. That
you Pink?"

"We've got to make the ship," he bawled, twisting with pain.

"Make it what?"

"If you want to live, son--stand up!"

Jerry got to his knees. "I'm sick, Pink."

He had used up six seconds. He had to try it on his own. Jerry was too
far gone to function properly.

Pink stood up. His teeth were grinding together like millstones, but he
didn't stop. He knew pain and dread and rage that shook him. He faced
the ship, and stood on his good leg and bent his knee and gave a
tremendous hop.

As he fell on his face, an unknown number of yards nearer, a great alien
passed him, the mighty sole slamming the rock a few feet from his prone
body. Pink struggled upright and balanced on the right leg and made
another hop. This time he didn't fall when he lit. Praying thankfully
for the two seconds that saved, he sprang again. And fell, painfully.

It was a useless piece of bravado. It was impossible to reach the ship.
He got up and leaped. He fell. He forced himself up and sprang and
didn't fall and sprang and fell.

He couldn't waste a blink of time in looking at the watch or yelling
with agony or even praying now. He went through his routine
automatically, his mind a thing of terror. Eons seemed to pass him by as
he hopped over the djinn-infested gray rock plain.

A superb spring took him abreast of the big lead vat. What wild scenes
of delirium were going on there he could not even imagine. He hopped
twice more and was at the ship.

At any instant, at this very second the ship would blossom into
red-white carnage of metal and flesh and death. Impossibly Pink stood on
his good leg and aimed for the scanner-port which he knew, or hoped,
connected with the screen in the control room where Jackson sat.

Now the _Elephant's Child_ was done, Jackson was shoving the switch
over, now it would all disintegrate in his face. He flew through space
and struck the hull flat; all the perishing strength in him glued his
body, his fingers in their thin gloves, to that curving surface. His
great helmet, with the crest insignia of comets and spears that mar