The Vanderlark

The peculiar quality of deep space is hard to put into words. On earth, however isolated we are, whatever happens to us, we are yet on our home planet. The man afloat on the life raft in the Pacific, delirious with exposure and loneliness, floats nonetheless on an element whose very saltiness relates it to the red sea water in his veins. The flyer forced down in the desert curses the rising sun; but the same sun that sucks water out of his drying tissues is the glorious temporal lord on whose radiation all terrestrial life processes depend. On earth our extremest terrors, our ultimate catastrophes, are yet like the blows of a familiar hand. It is very different in deep space.
Are there any more of them? Alice asked McFeen when he came back from two hold.
Yes.
Alice's mouth opened in a soundless O. Her hand went to her breast. After a moment she picked up the comb and began pulling it again through her brittle hair. How many more? she asked.
I didn't count them. Hyra are hard to count. Quite a lot.
The comb caught on a tangle. Alice put it down unsteadily. I wish we'd never brought them, she said abruptly. I wish we'd never started on this trip. I hate those things. They're uncanny. They give me the creeps. What do you suppose is making them increase like that?
I don't know. McFeen's lean, ill-humored face was more than usually morose. Listen, Alice....
Well?
That isn't the worst of it. I found a hole in the mesh of their cage.
You're trying to frighten me, Alice said pitiably after a second. There couldn't be a hole in beryllium mesh.
There was, though. I had to patch it up the best way I could. And ... and ... Alice, there was an eroded spot in the side of the hull.
You mean there was a spot eaten into on the side of our ship?