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quadrant of the nebula. Long-distance locators found at least two sol-type stars there showing measure perturbations in their paths, indicative of planets at distances which would place them in the so-called life zones."
    "Don't give me that kind of bull," Doolittle complained. "Intelligent life my ass! You oughta know by now, Boiler, that there's no intelligent life in this universe. None at all."
    Including ourselves, of course, he added to himself. But this was no revelation. They had known that for years, when prediction after prediction had failed to be borne out. They'd visited and mapped dozens of worlds where life should have sprung up independently and flowered, and they'd found nothing but lower forms of plants and animals, the highest being Pinback's pet amorph, which they'd called the Beachball. A poor response to all their desperate hopes of finding intelligent life.
    No, they were alone—alone in a mocking infinity. Only Talby seemed not to be alone
    "I know it's a long shot," Boiler responded quietly, "but . . ." He watched the lieutenant carefully, but his guarded optimism had no effect on Doolittle.
    "Damned wild goose chase is what it is," the lieutenant finally commented. He grinned a little. "Remember when Commander Powell found that 'ninety-nine-plus' probability of intelligent life in a little system on line with the Magellanic Cloud and for a couple of minutes we all thought he meant we were going there?"
    The corporal shook his head. He didn't remember. A hand indicated a particular readout.
    "But there is a possibility this time, according to . . ." Doolittle ignored him, still reminiscing.
    What a shame! What a sad memory! And what a colossal disappointment. It nearly broke Powell's heart.
    "Remember what we found when we did get to that world, Boiler? Remember? Was it a race of giant humanoids waiting to welcome us as members of a world-spanning intergalactic civilization? Or a planet of quiet thinkers waiting for a new, vigorous people like ourselves to unload all the secrets of the universe on? Or even a race of intelligent insects? Or revolting giant slugs?
    "No . . . nothing to love, nothing to be friends with, nothing to even raise to a conscious level. Nothing to even hate decently. A joke, a damned mindless vegetable—that's what we found. A limp balloon." His voice rose higher, and both Boiler and Pinback watched him anxiously.
    "Fourteen goddamned light-years for a vegetable that goes squawk and lets out a stink if it's touched! Remember that?"
    "All right, I remember, I remember," confessed Boiler, trying to calm his companion.
    Doolittle was aware that he was once again perilously close to going over the edge. He dropped his voice, would have jammed his hands into his pockets if he hadn't been sitting down. He looked away from the others.
    "So anyway, don't give me any of that 'intelligent life' stuff. Find me something I can blow up."
    Once more an uneasy quiet reigned in the control room of the Dark Star . Each man returned to his station, which had the virtue of not yelling, not screaming, not scratching, and not fighting back.
    They shot along in silence faster than man had ever traveled before, for the Dark Star was the first of its kind. There had been no experimental predecessor; the Dark Star was, in itself, an experimental ship. An experimental starship would have been prohibitively expensive, so it was combined with this first, vital mission, built with knowledge drawn from the unmanned deep-space probes.
    And it had worked out well. Only minor, irritating little things continued to break down. The ship itself continued to operate almost flawlessly—like her crew.
    A sudden series of beeps erupted from Pinback's station. He blinked, leaned forward. A key shut off the noise.
    "Hey," he said after studying the instruments, his expression lighting up, "new star."
    No one reacted. He looked at Boiler, then Doolittle. Maybe they hadn't heard him. "Hey, guess what," he repeated a