A Place In The Sun

: A Place In The Sun

Mayhem, the man of many bodies, had been given some weird

assignments in his time, but saving The Glory of the Galaxy

wasn't difficult--it was downright impossible!





The SOS crackled and hummed through subspace at a speed which left

laggard light far behind. Since subspace distances do not coincide with

normal space distances, the SOS was first picked up by a Fomalhautian

freighter bo nd for Capella although it had been issued from a point in

normal space midway between the orbit of Mercury and the sun's corona in

the solar system.



The radioman of the Fomalhautian freighter gave the distress signal to

the Deck Officer, who looked at it, blinked, and bolted 'bove decks to

the captain's cabin. His face was very white when he reached the door

and his heart pounded with excitement. As the Deck Officer crossed an

electronic beam before the door a metallic voice said: "The Captain is

asleep and will be disturbed for nothing but emergency priority."



Nodding, the Deck officer stuck his thumb in the whorl-lock of the door

and entered the cabin. "Begging your pardon, sir," he cried, "but we

just received an SOS from--"



* * * * *



The Captain stirred groggily, sat up, switched on a green night light

and squinted through it at the Deck Officer. "Well, what is it? Isn't

the Eye working?"



"Yes, sir. An SOS, sir...."



"If we're close enough to help, subspace or normal space, take the usual

steps, lieutenant. Surely you don't need me to--"



"The usual steps can't be taken, sir. Far as I can make out, that ship

is doomed. She's bound on collision course for Sol, only twenty million

miles out now."



"That's too bad, lieutenant," the Captain said with genuine sympathy in

his voice. "I'm sorry to hear that. But what do you want me to do about

it?"



"The ship, sir. The ship that sent the SOS--hold on to your hat, sir--"



"Get to the point now, will you, young man?" the Captain growled

sleepily.



"The ship which sent the SOS signal, the ship heading on collision

course for Sol, is the Glory of the Galaxy!"



For a moment the Captain said nothing. Distantly, you could hear the hum

of the subspace drive-unit and the faint whining of the stasis

generator. Then the Captain bolted out of bed after unstrapping himself.

In his haste he forgot the ship was in weightless deep space and went

sailing, arms flailing air, across the room. The lieutenant helped him

down and into his magnetic-soled shoes.



"My God," the Captain said finally. "Why did it happen? Why did it have

to happen to the Glory of the Galaxy?"



"What are you going to do, sir?"



"I can't do anything. I won't take the responsibility. Have the

radioman contact the Hub at once."



"Yes, sir."



The Glory of the Galaxy, the SOS ship heading on collision course with

the sun, was making its maiden run from the assembly satellites of Earth

across the inner solar system via the perihelion passage which would

bring it within twenty-odd million miles of the sun, to Mars which now

was on the opposite side of Sol from Earth. Aboard the gleaming new ship

was the President of the Galactic Federation and his entire cabinet.



* * * * *



The Fomalhautian freighter's emergency message was received at the Hub

of the Galaxy within moments after it had been sent, although the normal

space distance was in the neighborhood of one hundred thousand light

years. The message was bounced--in amazingly quick time--from office to

office at the hub, cutting through the usual red tape because of its top

priority. And--since none of the normal agencies at the Hub could handle

it--the message finally arrived at an office which very rarely received

official messages of any kind. This was the one unofficial, extra-legal

office at the Hub of the Galaxy. Lacking official function, the office

had no technical existence and was not to be found in any Directory of

the Hub. At the moment, two young men were seated inside. Their sole job

was to maintain liaison with a man whose very existence was doubted by

most of the human inhabitants of the Galaxy but whose importance could

not be measured by mere human standards in those early days when the

Galactic League was becoming the Galactic Federation.



The name of the man with whom they maintained contact was Johnny Mayhem.



"Did you read it?" the blond man asked.



"I read it."



"If it got down here, that means they can't handle it anywhere else."



"Of course they can't. What the hell could normal slobs like them or

like us do about it?"



"Nothing, I guess. But wait a minute! You don't mean you're going to

send Mayhem, without asking him, without telling--"



"We can't ask him now, can we?"



"Johnny Mayhem's elan is at the moment speeding from Canopus to Deneb,

where on the fourth planet of the Denebian system a dead body is waiting

for him in cold storage. The turnover from League to Federation status

of the Denebian system is causing trouble in Deneb City, so Mayhem--"



"Deneb City will probably survive without Mayhem. Well, won't it?"



"I guess so, but--"



"I know. The deal is we're supposed to tell Mayhem where he's going and

what he can expect. The deal also is, every inhabited world has a body

waiting for his elan in cold storage. But don't you think if we could

talk to Mayhem now--"



"It isn't possible. He's in transit."



"Don't you think if we could talk to him now he would agree to board the

Glory of the Galaxy?"



"How should I know? I'm not Johnny Mayhem."



"If he doesn't board her, it's certain death for all of them."



"And if he does board her, what the hell can he do about it? Besides,

there isn't any dead body awaiting his elan on that ship or any ship.

He wouldn't make a very efficacious ghost."



"But there are live people. Scores of them. Mayhem's elan is quite

capable of possessing a living host."



"Sure. Theoretically it is. But damn it all, what would the results be?

We've never tried it. It's liable to damage Mayhem. As for the host--"



"The host might die. I know it. But he'll die anyway. The whole shipload

of them is heading on collision course for the sun."



"Does the SOS say why?"



"No. Maybe Mayhem can find out and do something about it."



* * * * *



"Yeah, maybe. That's a hell of a way to risk the life of the most

important man in the Galaxy. Because if Mayhem boards that ship and

can't do anything about it, he'll die with the rest of them."



"Why? We could always pluck his elan out again."



"If he were inhabiting a dead one. In a live body, I don't think so.

The attraction would be stronger. There would be forces of cohesion--"



"That's true. Still, Mayhem's our only hope."



"I'll admit it's a job for Mayhem, but he's too important."



"Is he? Don't be a fool. What, actually, is Johnny Mayhem's importance?

His importance lies in the very fact that he is expendable. His

life--for the furtherance of the new Galactic Federation."



"But--"



"And the President is aboard that ship. Maybe he can't do as much for

the Galaxy in the long run as Mayhem can, but don't you see, man, he's a

figurehead. Right now he's the most important man in the Galaxy, and if

we could talk to him I'm sure Mayhem would agree. Mayhem would want to

board that ship."



"It's funny, we've been working with Mayhem all these years and we never

even met the guy."



"Would you know him if you saw him?"



"Umm-mm, I guess not. Do you think we really can halt his elan in

subspace and divert it over to the Glory of the Galaxy?"



"I take it you're beginning to see things my way. And the answer to your

question is yes."



"Poor Mayhem. You know, I actually feel sorry for the guy. He's had more

adventures than anyone since Homer wrote the Odyssey and there won't

ever be any rest for him."



"Stop feeling sorry for him and start hoping he succeeds."



"Yeah."



"And let's see about getting a bead on his elan."



The two young men walked to a tri-dim chart which took up much of the

room. One of them touched a button and blue light glowed within the

chart, pulsing brightly and sharply where space-sectors intersected.



"He's in C-17 now," one of the men said as a gleaming whiteness was

suddenly superimposed at a single point on the blue.



"Can you bead him?"



"I think so. But I still feel sorry for Mayhem. He's expecting to wake

up in a cold-storage corpse on Deneb IV but instead he'll come to in a

living body aboard a spaceship on collision course for the sun."



"Just hope he--"



"I know. Succeeds. I don't even want to think of the possibility he

might fail."



In seconds, the gleaming white dot crawled across the surface of the

tri-dim chart from sector C-17 to sector S-1.



* * * * *



The Glory of the Galaxy was now nineteen million miles out from the

sun and rushing through space at a hundred miles per second, normal

space drive. The Glory of the Galaxy thus moved a million miles closer

to fiery destruction every three hours--but since the sun's

gravitational force had to be added to that speed, the ship was slated

to plunge into the sun's corona in little more than twenty-four hours.



Since the ship's refrigeration units would function perfectly until the

outer hull reached a temperature of eleven hundred degrees Fahrenheit,

none of its passengers knew that anything was wrong. Even the members of

the crew went through all the normal motions. Only the Glory of the

Galaxy's officers in their bright new uniforms and gold braid knew the

grim truth of what awaited the gleaming two-thousand ton spaceship less

than twenty-four hours away at the exact center of its perihelion

passage.



Something--unidentified as yet--in all the thousands of intricate things

that could go wrong on a spaceship, particularly a new one making its

maiden voyage, had gone wrong. The officers were checking their

catalogues and their various areas of watch meticulously--and not

because their own lives were at stake. In spaceflight, your own life

always is at stake. There are too many imponderables: you are, to a

certain degree, expendable. The commissioned contingent aboard the

Glory of the Galaxy was a dedicated group, hand-picked from all the

officers in the solar system.



* * * * *



But they could find nothing. And do nothing.



Within a day, their lives along with the lives of the enlisted men

aboard the Glory of the Galaxy and the passengers on its maiden run,

would be snuffed out in a brilliant burst of solar heat.



And the President of the Galactic Federation would die because some

unknown factor had locked the controls of the spaceship, making it

impossible to turn or use forward rockets against the gravitational pull

of the sun.



Nineteen million miles. In normal space, a considerable distance. A

hundred miles a second--a very considerable normal space speed.

Increasing....



* * * * *



Ever since they had left Earth's assembly satellites, Sheila Kelly had

seen a lot of a Secret Serviceman named Larry Grange, who was a member

of the President's corps of bodyguards. She liked Larry, although there

was nothing serious in their relationship. He was handsome and charming

and she was naturally flattered with his attentions. Still, although he

was older than Sheila, she sensed that he was a boy rather than a man

and had the odd feeling that, faced with a real crisis, he would confirm

this tragically.



It was night aboard the Glory of the Galaxy. Which was to say the

blue-green night lights had replaced the white day lights in the

companionways and public rooms of the spaceship, since its ports were

sealed against the fierce glare of the sun. It was hard to believe,

Sheila thought, that they were only nineteen million miles from the sun.

Everything was so cool--so comfortably air-conditioned....



She met Larry in the Sunside Lounge, a cabaret as nice as any terran

nightclub she had ever seen. There were stylistic Zodiac drawings on the

walls and blue-mirrored columns supporting the roof. Like everything

else aboard the Glory of the Galaxy, the Sunside Lounge hardly seemed

to belong on a spaceship. For Sheila Kelly, though--herself a third

secretary with the department of Galactic Economy--it was all very

thrilling.



"Hello, Larry," she said as the Secret Serviceman joined her at their

table. He was a tall young man in his late twenties with crewcut blond

hair; but he sat down heavily now and did not offer Sheila his usual

smile.



"Why, what on earth is the matter?" Sheila asked him.



"Nothing. I need a drink, that's all."



The drinks came. Larry gulped his and ordered another. His complete

silence baffled Sheila, who finally said:



"Surely it isn't anything I did."



"You? Don't be silly."



"Well! After the way you said that I don't know if I should be glad or

not."



"Just forget it. I'm sorry, kid. I--" He reached out and touched her

hand. His own hand was damp and cold.



"Going to tell me, Larry?"



"Listen. What's a guy supposed to do if he overhears something he's not

supposed to overhear, and--"



"How should I know unless you tell me what you overheard? It is you

you're talking about, isn't it?"



"Yeah. I was going off duty, walking by officer quarters and ... oh,

forget it. I better not tell you."



"I'm a good listener, Larry."



"Look, Irish. You're a good anything--and that's the truth. You have

looks and you have brains and I have a hunch through all that Emerald

Isle sauciness you have a heart too. But--"



"But you don't want to tell me."



"It isn't I don't want to, but no one's supposed to know, not even the

President."



"You sure make it sound mysterious."



"Just the officers. Oh, hell. I don't know. What good would it do if I

told you?"



"I guess you'd just get it off your chest, that's all."



"I can't tell anyone official, Sheila. I'd have my head handed to me.

But I've got to think and I've got to tell someone. I'll go crazy, just

knowing and not doing anything."



"It's important, isn't it?"



* * * * *



Larry downed another drink quickly. It was his fourth and Sheila had

never seen him take more than three or four in the course of a whole

evening. "You're damned right it's important." Larry leaned forward

across the postage-stamp table. A liquor-haze clouded his eyes as he

said: "It's so important that unless someone does something about it,

we'll all be dead inside of twenty-four hours. Only trouble is, there

isn't anything anyone can do about it."



"Larry--you're a little drunk."



"I know it. I know I am. I want to be a lot drunker. What the hell can a

guy do?"



"What do you know, Larry? What have you heard?"



"I know they have the President of the Galactic Federation aboard this

ship and that he ought to be told the truth."



"No. I mean--"



"They sent out an SOS, kid. Controls are locked. Lifeboats don't have

enough power to get us out of the sun's gravitational pull. We're all

going to roast, I tell you!"



Sheila felt her heart throb wildly. Even though he was well on the way

to being thoroughly drunk, Larry was telling the truth. Instinctively,

she knew that--was certain of it. "What are you going to do?" she said.



He shrugged. "I guess because I can't do a damned thing I'm going to get

good and drunk. That's what I'm going to do. Or maybe--who the hell

knows?--maybe in one minute I'm going to jump up on this table and tell

everyone what I overheard. Maybe I ought to do that, huh?"



"Larry, Larry--if it's as bad as you say, maybe you ought to think

before you do anything."



"Who am I to think? I'm one of the muscle men. That's what they pay me

for, isn't it?"



"Larry. You don't have to shout."



"Well, isn't it?"



"If you don't calm down I'll have to leave."



"You can sit still. You can park here all night. I'm leaving."



"What are you going to do?"



"Oh ... that." Larry got up from the table. He looked suddenly green and

Sheila thought it was because he had too much to drink. "You don't have

to worry about that, Sheila. Not now you don't. I all of a sudden don't

feel so good. Headache. Man, I never felt anything like it. Better go to

my cabin and lie down. Maybe I'll wake up and find out all this was a

dream, huh?"



"Do you need any help?" Sheila demanded, real concern in her voice.



"No. 'Sall right. Man, this headache really snuck up on me. Pow! Without

any warning."



"Let me help you."



"No. Just leave me alone, will you?" Larry staggered off across the

crowded dance floor. He drew angry glances and muttered comments as he

disturbed the dancers waltzing to Carlotti's Danube in Space.



Why don't you admit it, Grange, Larry thought as he staggered through

the companionway toward his cabin. That's what you always wanted, isn't

it--a place of importance?



A place in the sun, they call it.



"You're going to get a place in the sun, all right," he mumbled aloud.

"Right smack in the middle of the sun with everyone else aboard this

ship!"



The humor of it amused him perversely. He smiled--but it was closer to a

leer--and lunged into his cabin. What he said to Sheila was no joke. He

really did have a splitting headache. It had come on suddenly and it was

like no headache he had ever known. It pulsed and throbbed and beat

against his temples and held red hot needles to the backs of his

eyeballs, almost blinding him. It sapped all his strength, leaving him

physically weak. He was barely able to close the door behind him and

stagger to the shower.



An ice cold shower, he thought would help. He stripped quickly and got

under the needle spray. By that time he was so weak he could barely

stand.



A place in the sun, he thought....



Something grabbed his mind and wrenched it.



* * * * *



Johnny Mayhem awoke.



Awakening came slowly, as it always did. It was a rising through

infinite gulfs, a rebirth for a man who had died a hundred times and

might die a thousand times more as the years piled up and became

centuries. It was a spinning, whirling, flashing ascent from blackness

to coruscating colors, brightness, giddiness.



And suddenly, it was over.



A needle spray of ice-cold water beat down upon him. He shuddered and

reached for the water-taps, shutting them. Dripping, he climbed from the

shower.



And floated up--quite weightless--toward the ceiling.



Frowning with his new and as yet unseen face, Johnny Mayhem propelled

himself to the floor. He looked at his arms. He was naked--at least that

much was right.



But obviously, since he was weightless, he was not on Deneb IV. During

his transmigration he had been briefed for the trouble on Deneb IV. Then

had a mistake been made somehow? It was always possible--but it had

never happened before.



Too much precision and careful planning was involved.



Every world which had an Earthman population and a Galactic League--now,

Galactic Federation--post, must have a body in cold storage, waiting for

Johnny Mayhem if his services were required. No one knew when Mayhem's

services might be required. No one knew exactly under what circumstances

the Galactic Federation Council, operating from the Hub of the Galaxy,

might summon Mayhem. And only a very few people, including those at the

Hub and the Galactic League Firstmen on civilized worlds and Observers

on frontier planets, knew the precise mechanics of Mayhem's coming.



* * * * *



Johnny Mayhem, a bodiless sentience. Mayhem--Johnny Marlow then--who

had been chased from Earth a pariah and a criminal seven years ago, who

had been mortally wounded on a wild planet deep within the Sagittarian

Swarm, whose life had been saved--after a fashion--by the white magic

of that planet. Mayhem, doomed now to possible immortality as a

bodiless sentience, an elan, which could occupy and activate a corpse

if it had been preserved properly ... an elan doomed to wander

eternally because it could not remain in one body for more than a month

without body and elan perishing. Mayhem, who had dedicated his

strange, lonely life to the services of the Galactic League--now the

Galactic Federation--because a normal life and normal social relations

were not possible to him....



It did not seem possible, Mayhem thought now, that a mistake could be

made. Then--a sudden change in plans?



It had never happened before, but it was entirely possible. Something,

Mayhem decided, had come up during transmigration. It was terribly

important and the people at the Hub had had no opportunity to brief him

on it.



But--what?



* * * * *



His first shock came a moment later. He walked to a mirror on the wall

and approved of the strong young body which would house his sentience

and then scowled. A thought inside his head said:



So this is what it's like to have schizophrenia.



What the hell was that? Mayhem thought.



I said, so this is what it's like to have schizophrenia. First the

world's worst headache and then I start thinking like two different

people.



Aren't you dead?



Is that supposed to be a joke, alter ego? When do the men in the white

suits come?



Good Lord, this was supposed to be a dead body!



At that, the other sentience which shared the body with Mayhem snickered

and lapsed into silence. Mayhem, for his part, was astounded.



Don't get ornery now, Mayhem pleaded. I'm Johnny Mayhem. Does that

mean anything to you?



Oh, sure. It means I'm dead. You inhabit dead bodies, right?



Usually. Listen--where are we?



Glory of the Galaxy--bound from Earth to Mars on perihelion.



And there's trouble?



How do you know there's trouble?



Otherwise they wouldn't have diverted me here.



We've got the president aboard. We're going to hit the sun. Then,

grudgingly, Larry went into the details. When he finished he thought

cynically: Now all you have to do is go outside yelling have no fear,

Mayhem is here and everything will be all right, I suppose.



Mayhem didn't answer. It would be many moments yet before he could

adjust to this new, unexpected situation. But in a way, he thought, it

would be a boon. If he were co-inhabiting the body of a living man who

belonged on the Glory of the Galaxy, there was no need to reveal his

identity as Johnny Mayhem to anyone but his host....



* * * * *



"I tell ya," Technician First Class Ackerman Boone shouted, "the

refrigeration unit's gone on the blink. You can't feel it yet, but I

ought to know. I got the refrigs working full strength and we gained a

couple of degrees heat. Either she's on the blink or we're too close to

the sun, I tell you!"



Ackerman Boone was a big man, a veteran spacer with a squat, very strong

body and arms like an orangutan. Under normal circumstances he was a

very fine spacer and a good addition to any crew, but he bore an

unreasonable grudge against the officer corps and would go out of his

way to make them look bad in the eyes of the other enlisted men. A large

crowd had gathered in the hammock-hung crew quarters of the Glory of

the Galaxy as Boone went on in his deep, booming voice: "So I asked the

skipper of the watch, I did. He got shifty-eyed, like they always do.

You know. He wasn't talking, but sure as my name's Ackerman Boone,

something's wrong."



"What do you think it is, Acky?" one of the younger men asked.



"Well, I tell ya this: I know what it isn't. I checked out the refrigs

three times, see, and came up with nothing. The refrigs are in jig

order, and if I know it then you know it. So, if the refrigs are in jig

order, there's only one thing it can be: we're getting too near the

sun!" Boone clamped his mouth shut and stood with thick, muscular arms

crossed over his barrel chest.



* * * * *



A young technician third class said in a strident voice, "You mean you

think maybe we're plunging into the sun, Acky?"



"Well, now, I didn't say that. Did I, boy? But we are too close and if

we are too close there's got to be a reason for it. If we stay too close

too long, O.K. Then we're plunging into the sun. Right now, I dunno."



They all asked Ackerman Boone, who was an unofficial leader among them,

what he was going to do. He rubbed his big fingers against the thick

stubble of beard on his jaw and you could hear the rasping sound it

made. Then he said, "Nothing, until we find out for sure. But I got a

hunch the officers are trying to pull the wool over the eyes of them

politicians we got on board. That's all right with me, men. If they want

to, they got their reasons. But I tell ya this: they ain't going to pull

any wool over Acky Boone's eyes, and that's a fact."



Just then the squawk box called: "Now hear this! Now hear this! Tech/1

Ackerman Boone to Exec's office. Tech/1 Boone to Exec."



"You see?" Boone said, smiling grimly. As yet, no one saw. His face

still set in a grim smile, Ackerman Boone headed above decks.



* * * * *



"That, Mr. President," Vice Admiral T. Shawnley Stapleton said gravely,

"is the problem. We would have come to you sooner, sir, but frankly--"



"I know it, Admiral," the President said quietly. "I could not have

helped you in any way. There was no sense telling me."



"We have one chance, sir, and one only. It's irregular and it will

probably knock the hell out of the Glory of the Galaxy, but it may

save our lives. If we throw the ship suddenly into subspace we could

pass right through the sun's position and--"



"I'm no scientist, Admiral, but wouldn't that put tremendous stress not

only on the ship but on all of us aboard?"



"It would, sir. I won't keep anything from you, of course. We'd all be

subjected to a force of twenty-some gravities for a period of several

seconds. Here aboard the Glory, we don't have adequate G-equipment.

It's something like the old days of air flight, sir: as soon as

airplanes became reasonably safe, passenger ships didn't bother to carry

parachutes. Result over a period of fifty years: thousands of lives

lost. We'd all be bruised and battered, sir. Bones would be broken.

There might be a few deaths. But I see no other way out, sir."



"Then there was no need to check with me at all, I assure you, Admiral

Stapleton. Do whatever you think is best, sir."



The Admiral nodded gravely. "Thank you, Mr. President. I will say this,

though: we will wait for a miracle."



"I'm afraid I don't follow you."



"Well, I don't expect a miracle, but the switchover to subspace so

suddenly is bound to be dangerous. Therefore, we'll wait until the last

possible moment. It will grow uncomfortably warm, let me warn you, but

as long as the subspace drive is in good working order--"



"I see what you mean, Admiral. You have a free hand, sir; let me repeat

that. I will not interfere in any way and I have the utmost confidence

in you." The President mopped his brow with an already damp

handkerchief. It was growing warm, come to think of it. Uncomfortably

warm.



As if everyone aboard the Glory of the Galaxy was slowly being broiled

alive....



* * * * *



Ackerman Boone entered the crew quarters with the same smile still on

his lips. At first he said nothing, but his silence drew the men like a

magnet draws iron filings. When they had all clustered about him he

spoke.



"The Exec not only chewed my ears off," he boomed. "He all but spit them

in my face! I was right, men. He admitted it to me after he saw how he

couldn't get away with anything in front of Ackerman Boone. Men, we're

heading on collision course with the sun!"



A shocked silence greeted his words and Ackerman Boone, instinctively a

born speaker, paused dramatically to allow each man the private horror

of his own thoughts for a few moments. Then he continued: "The Admiral

figures we have one chance to get out of this alive, men. He figures--"



"What is it, Acky?"



"What will he do?"



"How will the Admiral get us out of this?"



Ackerman Boone spat on the polished, gleaming floor of the crew

quarters. "He'll never get us out alive, let me tell you. He wants to

shift us into subspace at the last possible minute. Suddenly. Like

this--" and Ackerman Boone snapped his fingers.



"There'd be a ship full of broken bones!" someone protested. "We can't

do a thing like that."



"He'll kill us all!" a very young T/3 cried hysterically.



"Not if I can help it, he won't," shouted Ackerman Boone. "Listen, men.

This ain't a question of discipline. It's a question of living or dying

and I tell you that's more important than doing it like the book says or

discipline or anything like that. We got a chance, all right: but it

ain't what the Admiral thinks it is. We ought to abandon the Glory to

her place in the sun and scram out of here in the lifeboats--every last

person aboard ship."



"But will they have enough power to get out of the sun's gravitational

pull?" someone asked.



Ackerman Boone shrugged. "Don't look at me," he said mockingly. "I'm

only an enlisted man and they don't give enlisted men enough math to

answer questions like that. But reckoning by the seat of my pants I

would say, yes. Yes, we could get away like that--if we act fast.

Because every minute we waste is a minute that brings us closer to the

sun and makes it harder to get away in the lifeboats. If we act, men, we

got to act fast."



"You're talking mutiny, Boone," a grizzled old space veteran said. "You

can count me out."



"What's the matter, McCormick? Yellow?"



"I'm not yellow. I say it takes guts to maintain discipline in a real

emergency. I say you're yellow, Boone."



"You better be ready to back that up with your fists, McCormick," Boone

said savagely.



"I'm ready any time you're ready, you yellow mutinous bastard!"



* * * * *



Ackerman Boone launched himself at the smaller, older man, who stood his

ground unflinchingly although he probably knew he would take a sound

beating. But four or five crewmen came between them and held them apart,

one saying:



"Look who's talking, Boone. You say time's precious but you're all set

to start fighting. Every minute--"



"Every second," Boone said grimly, "brings us more than a hundred

miles closer to the sun."



"What can we do, Acky?"



Instead of answer, Ackerman Boone dramatically mopped the sweat from his

face. All the men were uncomfortably warm now. It was obvious that the

temperature within the Glory of the Galaxy had now climbed fifteen or

twenty degrees despite the fact that the refrigs were working at full

capacity. Even the bulkheads and the metal floor of crew quarters were

unpleasantly warm to the touch. The air was hot and suddenly very dry.



"I'll tell you what we ought to do," Ackerman Boone said finally.

"Admiral Stapleton or no Admiral Stapleton, President of the Galactic

Federation or no President of the Galactic Federation, we ought to take

over this ship and man the life boats for everyone's good. If they don't

want to save their lives and ours--let's us save our lives and theirs!"



Roars of approval greeted Boone's words, but Spacer McCormick and some

of the other veterans stood apart from the loud speech-making which

followed. Actually, Boone's wild words--which he gambled with after the

first flush of enthusiasm for his plan--began to lose converts. One by

one the men drifted toward McCormick's silent group until, finally,

Boone had lost almost his entire audience.



Just then a T/2 rushed into crew quarters and shouted: "Hey, is Boone

around? Has anyone seen Boone?"



This brought general laughter. Under the circumstances, the question was

not without its humorous aspect.



"What'll you have?" Boone demanded.



"The refrigs, Boone! They are on the blink. Overstrained themselves and

burned themselves out. Inside of half an hour this ship's going to be an

oven hot enough to kill us all!"



"Half an hour, men!" Ackerman Boone cried. "Now, do we take over the

ship and man those lifeboats or don't we!"



The roar which followed his words was a decidedly affirmative one.



* * * * *



"These are the figures," Admiral Stapleton said. "You can see, Mr.

President, that we have absolutely no chance whatever if we man the

lifeboats. We would perish as assuredly as we would if we remained with

the Glory of the Galaxy in normal space."



"Admiral, I have to hand it to you. I don't know how you can think--in

all this heat."



"Have to, sir. Otherwise we all die."



"The air temperature--"



"Is a hundred and thirty degrees and rising. We've passed salt tablets

out to everyone, sir, but even then it's only a matter of time before

we're all prostrated. If you're sure you give your permission, sir--"



"Admiral Stapleton, you are running this ship, not I."



"Very well, sir. I've sent our subspace officer, Lieutenant Ormundy, to

throw in the subspace drive. We should know in a few moments--"



"No crash hammocks or anything?"



"I'm sorry, sir."



"It isn't your fault, Admiral. I was merely pointing out a fact."



The squawk box blared: "Now hear this! Now hear this! T/3 Ackerman Boone

to Admiral Stapleton. Are you listening, Admiral?"



Admiral Stapleton's haggard, heat-worn face bore a look of astonishment

as he listened. Ackerman said, "We have Lieutenant Ormundy, Admiral.

He's not killing us all by putting us into subspace in minutes when it

ought to take hours, you understand. We have Ormundy and we have the

subspace room. A contingent of our men is getting the lifeboats ready.

We're going to abandon ship, Admiral, all of us, including you and the

politicians even if we have to drag you aboard the lifeboats at

N--gunpoint."



Admiral Stapleton's face went ashen. "Let me at a radio!" he roared. "I

want to answer that man and see if he understands exactly what mutiny

is!"



While Ackerman Boone was talking over the squawk box, the temperature

within the Glory of the Galaxy rose to 145 deg. Fahrenheit.



* * * * *



"Fifteen minutes," Larry Grange said. "In fifteen minutes the heat will

have us all unconscious." Only it wasn't Larry alone who was talking. It

was Larry and Johnny Mayhem. In a surprisingly short time the young

Secret Serviceman had come to accept the dual occupation of his own

mind. It was there: it was either dual occupation or insanity and if the

voice which spoke inside his head said it was Johnny Mayhem, then it was

Johnny Mayhem. Besides, Larry felt clear-headed in a way he had never

felt before, despite the terrible, sapping heat. It was as if he had

matured suddenly--the word matured came to him instinctively--in the

space of minutes. Or, as if a maturing influence were at work on his

mind.



"What can we do?" Sheila said. "The crew has complete control of the

ship."



"Secret Service chief says we're on our own. There's no time for

co-ordinated planning, but somehow, within a very few minutes, we've got

to get inside the subspace room and throw the ship out of normal space

or we'll all be roasted."



"Some of your men are there now, aren't they?"



"In the companionway outside the subspace room, yeah. But they'll never

force their way in time. Not with blasters and not with N-guns, either.

Not in ten minutes, they won't."



"Larry, all of a sudden I--I'm scared. We're all going to die, Larry. I

don't want--Larry, what are you going to do?"



They had been walking in a deserted companionway which brought them to

one of the aft escape hatches of the Glory of the Galaxy. Their

clothing was plastered to their bodies with sweat and every breath was

agonizing, furnace hot.



"I'm going outside," Larry said quietly.



"Outside? What do you mean?"



"Spacesuit, outside. There's a hatch in the subspace room. If their

attention is diverted to the companionway door, I may be able to get in.

It's our only chance--ours, and everyone's."



"But the spacesuit--"



"I know," Larry said even as he was climbing into the inflatable vacuum

garment. It was Larry--and it wasn't Larry. He felt a certain

confidence, a certain sense of doing the right thing--a feeling which

Larry Grange had never experienced before in his life. It was as if the

boy had become a man in the final moments of his life--or, he thought

all at once, it was as if Johnny Mayhem who shared his mind and his body

with him was somehow transmitting some of his own skills and confidence

even as he--Mayhem--had reached the decision to go outside.



"I know," he said. "The spacesuit isn't insulated sufficiently. I'll

have about three minutes out there. Three minutes to get inside.

Otherwise, I'm finished."



"But Larry--"



"Don't you see, Sheila? What does it matter? Who wants the five or ten

extra minutes if we're all going to die anyway? This way, there's a

chance."



He buckled the spacesuit and lifted the heavy fishbowl helmet, preparing

to set it on his shoulders.



"Wait," Sheila said, and stood on tiptoes to take his face in her hands

and kiss him on the lips. "You--you're different," Sheila said. "You're

the same guy, a lot of fun, but you're a--man, too. This is for what

might have been, Larry," she said, and kissed him again. "This is

because I love you."



Before he dropped the helmet in place, Larry said. "It isn't for what

might have been, Sheila. It's for what will be."



The helmet snapped shut over the shoulder ridges of the spacesuit.

Moments later, he had slipped into the airlock.



* * * * *



"I say you're a fool, Ackerman Boone!" one of the enlisted men rasped at

the leader of the mutiny. "I say now we've lost our last chance. Now

it's too late to get into the lifeboats even if we wanted to. Now all we

can do is--die!"



There were still ten conscious men in the subspace room. The others had

fallen before heat prostration and lay strewn about the floor, wringing

wet and oddly flaccid as if all the moisture had been wrung from their

bodies except for the sweat which covered their skins.



"All right," Ackerman Boone admitted. "All right, so none of us knows

how to work the subspace mechanism. You think that would have helped? It

would have killed us all, I tell you."



"It was a chance, Boone. Our last chance and you--"



"Just shut up!" Boone snarled. "I know what you're thinking. You're

thinking we ought to let them officers and Secret Servicemen to ram home

the subspace drive. But use your head, man. Probably they'll kill us

all, but if they don't--"



"Then you admit there's a chance!"



"Yeah. All right, a chance. But if they don't kill us all, if they save

us by ramming home the subspacer, what happens? We're all taken in on a

mutiny charge. It's a capital offense, you fool!"



"Well, it's better than sure death," the man said, and moved toward the

door.



"Allister, wait!" Boone cried. "Wait, I'm warning you. Any man who tries

to open that door--"



Outside, a steady booming of blaster fire could be heard, but the

assault-proof door stood fast.



"--is going to get himself killed!" Boone finished.



Grimly, Allister reached the door and got his already blistered fingers

on the lock mechanism.



Ackerman Boone shot him in the back with an N-gun.



* * * * *



Larry's whole body felt like one raw mass of broken blisters as, flat on

his belly, he inched his way along the outside hull of the Glory of the

Galaxy. He had no idea what the heat was out here, but it radiated off

the hot hull of the Glory in scalding, suffocating waves which swept

right through the insulining of the spacesuit. If he didn't find the

proper hatch, and in a matter of seconds....



* * * * *



"Anyone else?" Ackerman Boone screamed. "Anyone else like Allister?"



But one by one the remaining men were dropping from the heat.

Finally--alone--Ackerman Boone faced the door and stared defiantly at

the hot metal as if he could see his adversaries through it. On the

other side, the firing became more sporadic as the officers and Secret

Servicemen collapsed. His mind crazed with the heat and with fear,

Ackerman Boone suddenly wished he could see the men through the door,

wished he could see them die....



* * * * *



It was this hatch or nothing. He thought it was the right one, but

couldn't be sure. He could no longer see. His vision had gone

completely. The pain was a numb thing now, far away, hardly a part of

himself. Maybe Mayhem was absorbing the pain-sensation for him, he

thought. Maybe Mayhem took the pain and suffered with it in the shared

body so he, Larry, could still think. Maybe--



His blistered fingers were barely able to move within the insulined

gloves, Larry fumbled with the hatch.



* * * * *



Ackerman Boone whirled suddenly. He had been intent upon the

companionway door and the sounds behind him--which he had heard but not

registered as dangerous for several seconds--now made him turn.



The man was peeling off a space suit. Literally peeling it off in strips

from his lobster-red flesh. He blinked at Boone without seeing him.

Dazzle-blinded, Boone thought, then realized his own vision was going.



"I'll kill you if you go near that subspace drive!" Boone screamed.



"It's the only chance for all of us and you know it, Boone," the man

said quietly. "Don't try to stop me."



Ackerman Boone lifted his N-gun and squinted through the haze of heat

and blinding light. He couldn't see! He couldn't see....



Wildly, he fired the N-gun. Wildly, in all directions, spraying the room

with it--



Larry dropped blindly forward. Twice he tripped over unconscious men,

but climbed to his feet and went on. He could not see Boone, but he

could see--vaguely--the muzzle flash of Boone's N-gun. He staggered

across the room toward that muzzle-flash and finally embraced it--



And found himself fighting for his life. Boone was crazed now--with the

heat and with his own failure. He bit and tore at Larry with strong

claw-like fingers and lashed out with his feet. He balled his fists and

hammered air like a windmill, arms flailing, striking flesh often enough

to batter Larry toward the floor.



Grimly Larry clung to him, pulled himself upright, ducked his head

against his chest and struck out with his own fists, feeling nothing,

not knowing when they landed and when they did not, hearing nothing but

a far off roaring in his ears, a roaring which told him he was losing

consciousness and had to act--soon--if he was going to save anyone....



He stood and pounded with his fists.



Pounded--air.



He did not know that Boone had collapsed until his feet trod on the

man's inert body and then, quickly, he rushed toward the control board,

rushed blindly in its direction, or in the direction he thought it would

be, tripped over something, sprawled on the hot, blistering floor, got

himself up somehow, crawled forward, pulled himself upright....



There was no sensation in his fingers. He did not know if he had

actually reached the control board but abruptly he realized that he had

not felt Mayhem's presence in his mind for several minutes. Was Mayhem

conserving his energy for a final try, letting Larry absorb the

punishment now so he--



Yes, Larry remembered thinking vaguely. It had to be that. For Mayhem

knew how to work the controls, and he did not. Now his mind receded into

a fog of semi-consciousness, but he was aware that his blistered fingers

were fairly flying across the control board, aware then of an inward

sigh--whether of relief or triumph, he was never to know--then aware,

abruptly and terribly, of a wrenching pain which seemed to strip his

skin from his flesh, his flesh from his bones, the marrow from....



* * * * *



"Can you see?" the doctor asked.



"Yes," Larry said as the bandages were removed from his eyes. Three

people were in the room with the doctor--Admiral Stapleton, the

President--and Sheila. Somehow, Sheila was most important.



"We are now in subspace, thanks to you," the Admiral said. "We all have

minor injuries as a result of the transfer, but there were only two

fatalities, I'm happy to say. And naturally, the ship is now out of

danger."



"What gets me, Grange," the President said, "is how you managed to work

those controls. What the devil do you know about sub-space, my boy?"



"The two fatalities," the Admiral said, "were Ackerman Boone and the man

he had killed." Then the Admiral grinned. "Can't you see, Mr. President,

that he's not paying any attention to us? I think, at the moment, the

hero of the hour only has eyes for Miss Kelly here."



"Begging your pardons, sirs, yes," Larry said happily.



Nodding and smiling, the President of the Galactic Federation and

Admiral Stapleton left the dispensary room--with the doctor.



"Well, hero," Sheila said, and smiled.



Larry realized--quite suddenly--that, inside himself, he was alone.

Mayhem had done his job--and vanished utterly.



"You know," Sheila said, "it's as if you--well, I hope this doesn't get

you sore at me--as if you grew up overnight."



Before he kissed her Larry said: "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'll tell

you about it someday. But you'd never believe me."