Stutsman read his fate in the cold eyes that stared into his. Chattering frightenedly, he rushed at Greg, plunged through him, collided with the wall of the ship and toppled over, feebly attempting to rise.
Invisible hands hoisted him to his feet, gripped him, held him upright. Greg walked toward him, stood facing him.
"Stutsman,” he said, “you have four hours of air. That will give you four hours to think, to make your peace with death.” He turned toward the other two. Chambers nodded grimly. Craven said nothing.
"And now,” said Greg to Craven, “if you will fasten down his helmet."
The helmet clanged shut, shutting out the pleas and threats that came from Stutsman's throat.
Stutsman saw distant stars, cruel, gleaming eyes that glared at him. Empty space fell away on all sides.
Numbed by fear, he realized where he was. Manning had picked him up and thrown him far into space… out into that waste where for hundreds of light years there was only the awful nothingness of space.
He was less than a speck of dust, in this great immensity of emptiness. There was no up or down, no means of orientation.
Loneliness and terror closed in on him, a terrible agony of fear. In four hours his air would be gone and then he would die! His body would swirl and eddy through this great cosmic ocean. It would never be found. It would remain here, embalmed by the cold of space, until the last clap of eternity.
There was one way, the easy way. His hand reached up and grasped the connection between his helmet and the air tank. One wrench and he would die swiftly, quickly… instead of letting death stalk him through the darkness for the next four hours.