JOE WILDING WAS RESTLESS. Even the fiery fever that racked him could not quiet him. He paced the long water compartment, legs weary but restless. He couldn’t stand it here much longer; he had to get out into the light, out where he could move and see and feel something besides the dampness dripping upon him, the quick mutter of the pumps as they drove the catalyst to the firing chambers.
He walked to the cubbyhole, looked down into the power room.
Whitey Burnet was there, alone.
Impulsively, Joe Wilding climbed out of the cubbyhole and down the ladder.
“Paul,” he said softly. “I’m hungry.”
Paul Burnet turned slowly.
“Hello, Joe.”
They stood there, the two of them. Whitey Burnet, immaculate in his white work clothes; Joe Wilding, a heavy growth of beard on his face, his tunic dirtied
