cylinder-crackers-square cornered, waxy carton. I slammed the cupboard shut, snatched up my purse as though I were on the way to the MONSTER MERCANTILE, staggered out of the door, and juggled my burdens until I could manipulate the key. Then I hesitated on the porch, one foot lifting, all ready to go to the craft, and silently gasped my travel prayer. 'Dear God, go with me to my destination. Don't let me imperil anyone or be imperiled by anyone. Amen.' I started down the steps, paused, and cried softly, 'To my destination and back! Oh, please! And back!' Have you, oh, have you ever watched space reach down to surround you as your hands would reach down to surround a minnow? Have you ever seen Earth, a separate thing, apart from you, and see-almost-all-able? Have you ever watched color deepen and run until it blared into blaze and blackness? Have you ever stepped out of the context in which your identity is established and floated un-anyone beyond the steady pulse of night and day and accustomed being? Have you ever, for even a fleeting second, shared God's eyes? I have! I have! And Mrs. Kroginold and Vincent were with me in all the awesome wonder of our going. You couldn't have seen us go even if you had known where to look. We were wrapped, in unlight again, and the craft was flowed again to make it a nothing to any detection device. 'I wish I could space walk!' said Vincent, finally, turning his shoulders but not his eyes away from the window. 'Daddy-' 'No.' Mr. Kroginold's tone left no loophole for further argument. 'Well, it would be fun,' Vincent sighed. Then he said in very small voice. 'Mother, I'm hungry.' 'So sorry!' Mrs. Kroginold hugged him to her briefly. Nearest hamburger joint's a far piece down the road!' 'Here-' I found, after two abortive attempts, that I still had a voice. I slithered cautiously to my knees on the bare floor-no luxury liner, this-and sat back. 'Peanut butter.' The jar clicked down. 'And crackers.' The carton thumped –and my elbow creaked almost audibly as I straightened it out from its spasmed clutch. 'Gollee! Real deal!' Vincent plumped down beside me and began working on the lid of the jar. 'What'll we spread it with?' 'Oh!' I blankly considered the problem. 'Oh, I have a nail file here in my purse.' I was fishing for it amid the usual clutter when I caught Mrs. Kroginold's surprised look. I grinned sheepishly. 'I thought I was hungry. But I guess that wasn't what was wrong with my stomach.' Shortly after the jar was opened and the roasty smell of peanuts spread, Mr. Kroginold and another fellow drifted casually over to us. I preferred to ignore the fact that they actually drifted-no steps on the floor. The other fellow was introduced as Jemmy. The Old One? Not so old, it seemed me. But then 'old' might mean 'wise' to these people. And on that score he could qualify. He had none of the loose ends that I can often sense in people. He was-whole.. 'Ron is lifting,' said Mr. Kroginold through a mouthful of peanut butter and crackers. He nodded at the center of the room where another fellow sat looking intently at a square, boxy-looking thing. 'That's the amplifier,' Jemmy said, as though that explained anything. 'It makes it possible for one man to manage the craft.' Something buzzed on a panel across the room. 'There!' Mr. Kroginold was at the window, staring intently. 'There it is! Good work, Ron!' At that moment Vincent cried out, his arms going up in their protesting posture. Mrs. Kroginold pushed him over to his father who drew him in the curve of his shoulder to the window, coaxing down the tense arms. 'See? There's the craft! It looks odd. Something's not right about it.' 'Can-can we take off the unlight now?' asked Vincent, jerkily. 'So he can see us? Then maybe he won't feel so bad- 'Jemmy?' Mr. Kroginold called across the craft. 'What do you think? Would the shock of our appearance be too much?' 'It could hardly be worse than the hell he's in now,' said Jemmy, 'So-' 'Oh!' cried Vincent. 'He thinks he just now died. He thinks we're the Golden Gates!' 'Rather a loose translation.' Jemmy flung a smiling glance at us. 'But he is wondering if we are the entrance to the afterworld. Ron, can we dock?' Moments later, there was a faint metallic click and a slight vibration through our craft. Then we three extras stood pressed to the window and watched Mr. Kroginold and Jemmy leave our craft. They were surrounded, it's true, by their shields that caught light and slid it rapidly around, but they did look so unguarded-no, they didn't! They looked right at home and intent on their rescue mission. They disappeared from the sight of our windows. We waited and waited, not saying anything-not aloud, anyway. I could feel a clanking through the floor under me. And a scraping. Then a long nothing again. Finally they came back in sight, the light from our window glinting across a mutual protective bubble that enclosed the two of them and a third inert figure between them. 'He still thinks he's dead,' said Vincent soberly. 'He's wondering if he ought to try to pray. He wasn't expecting people after he died. But mostly he's trying not to think.' They brought him in and laid him on the floor. They eased him out of his suit and wrapped him in my blanket. We three gathered around him, looking at his quiet, tight face. So young! I thought. So young! Unexpectedly his eyes opened, and he took us in, one by one. At the sight of Vincent, his mouth dropped open and his eyes fled shut again. 'What'd he do that for?' asked Vincent, a trifle hurt. 'Angels,' said his mother firmly, 'are not supposed have peanut butter around the mouth!' The three men consulted briefly. Then Mr. Kroginold prepared to leave our craft again. This time he took a blanket from the Rescue Pack they had brought in the craft. 'He can manage the body alone,' said Jemmy, being our intercom. A little later– 'He has the body out, but he's gone back-' His forehead creased, then cleared. 'Oh, the tapes and instrument packets,' he explained to our questioning glances. 'He thinks maybe they can study them and prevent this happening again.' He turned to Mrs. Kroginold. 'Well, Lizbeth, back when all of you were in school together in the canyon, I wouldn't have given a sandwiched quarter for the chances of any Kroginold ever turning out well. I sprinkle repentant ashes on my bowed head. Some good can come from Kroginolds!' And Vincent screamed! Before we could look his way, there was a blinding flash that exploded through every window as though we had suddenly been stabbed through and through. Then we were all tumbled in blinded confusion from one wall of our craft to another until, almost as suddenly, we floated in a soundless blackness. 'Jake! Oh, Jake!' I heard Mrs. Kroginold's whispering gasp. Then she cried out, 'Jemmy! Jemmy! What happened? Where's Jake?' Light came back. From where, I never did know. I hadn't known its source even before. 'The retro-rockets-' I felt more of his answer than I heard. 'Maybe they finally fired. Or maybe the whole capsule just blew up. Ron?' 'Might have holed us.' A voice I hadn't heard before answered. 'Didn't. Capsule's gone.' 'But-but-' The enormity of what had happened slowed our thoughts. 'Jake!' Mrs. Kroginold screamed. 'Jemmy! Ron! Jake's out there!' And, as suddenly as the outcry came, it was cut off. In terror I crouched on the floor, my arms up defensively, not to my ears as Vincent's had gone-there was nothing to hear-but against the soundless, aimless tumbling of bodies above me. Jemmy and Vincent and Mrs. Kroginold were like corpses afloat in some invisible sea. And Vincent, burrowed into a corner, was a small, silent, humped-up bundle. I think I would have gone mad in the incomprehensible silence if a hand hadn't clutched mine. Startled, I snatched it away, but gave it back, with a sob, to our shipwrecked stranger. He accepted it with both of his. We huddled together, taking comfort in having someone to cling to. Then I shook with hysterical laughter as I suddenly realized. ' `A sort of telepathy'!' I giggled. 'They are not dead but speak. Words are slow, you know.' I caught the young man's puzzled eyes. 'And of very little use in a situation like this.' I called to Ron where he crouched near the amplifier box. 'They are all right, aren't they?' 'They?' His head jerked upward. 'Of course. Communicating.' 'Where's Mr. Kroginold?' I asked. 'How can we ever hope to find him out there?'
