"Do you read me, Morrie?" I called.
Still no answer. I called a third time and when Morrie didn't seem to hear, I grew apprehensive.
"Morrie!"
I knew something was wrong now. He should have heard me. Sometimes a man will switch off his transmitter, but he always keeps his receiver on. The locks were emptied of air and I swung open the outer door. I fastened a lifeline to my belt and fitted the hasp of the other end to a ring just outside the door.
Then I pivoted around the door frame and planted my magnetized boots against the metal side of the ship. They stuck, and I started to walk around the craft toward motor No. Five.
I found Morrie Grover beside the engine, standing like a statue, his hands raised—thrown out by centrifugal force—as if some unseen bandit had ordered him to stick 'em up.
His unnatural position and his failure to answer my calls was enough to convince me that something was radically wrong. He was unconscious or—I tried not to think of the alternative.
What was wrong? Only a meteor could have hurt him here and we'd long since passed through that cloud. I knew the chance of being hit by one was so remote that it wasn't likely to occur in a couple of hundred years.
I stepped over the metal housing of the bank of motors between myself and Morrie. His body looked weird in the sunlight, going into phases like a man-shaped moon, with each revolution of the ship. Half his figure was black, half gleaming like a star. And then, as the sun peeped through the glass of his helmet, I saw a contorted face, open mouth, and staring, sightless eyes.
Sure that he was dead, I stepped to his side and peered down at the oxygen gauge on his chest, worn upside down so that it would be visible to Morrie. The tank was nearly full, but the needle didn't wiggle as it would have done if Morrie had been breathing. He was dead, all right.