drifting hulk--

There--to picture that was a danger signal. Whenever his thoughts
reached that particular point, Raf tried to think of something else,
to break the chain of dismal foreboding. How? By joining in Wonstead's
monologue of complaint and regret? Raf had heard the same words over
and over so often that they no longer had any meaning--except as a
series of sounds he might miss if the man who shared this pocket were
suddenly stricken dumb.

"Should never have put in for training--" Wonstead's whine went up the
scale.

That was unoriginal enough. They had all had that idea the minute
after the sorter had plucked their names for crew inclusion. No matter
what motive had led them into the stiff course of training--the
fabulous pay, a real interest in the project, the exploring fever--Raf
did not believe that there was a single man whose heart had not sunk
when he had been selected for flight. Even he, who had dreamed all his
life of the stars and the wonders which might lie just beyond the big
jump, had been honestly sick on the day he had shouldered his bag
aboard and had first taken his place on this mat and waited, dry
mouthed and shivering, for blast-off.

One lost all sense of time out here. They ate sparingly, slept when
they could, tried to while away the endless hours artificially divided
into set periods. But still weeks might be months, or months weeks.
They could have been years in space--or only days. All they knew was
the unending monotony which dragged upon a man until he either lapsed
into a dreamy rejection of his surroundings, as had Hamp and Floy, or