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Bill reached him, and touched helmets long enough to issue simple instructions through metal sound conduction. Then he managed to guide the other’s steps; there had been accounts of the days of learning spent by the first men on the Moon, but it wasn’t that bad with an instructor to help. The doctor picked up as they went along. Bill’s legs were buckling under him by then, and the itches were past endurance. At the end, the doctor was helping him. But somehow they made the ship, and were getting out of the suits—Bill first, then the doctor, using the grapples under Bill’s guidance.

The doctor was young, and obviously scared, but fighting his fear. He’d been picked for his smallness to lighten the load on the chemical rocket, and his little face was intent. But he managed a weak grin.

“Thanks, Adams. I’m Doctor Ames—Ted to you. Get onto that cot. You’re about out on your feet.”

The test he made didn’t take long, but his head was shaking at the conclusion.

“Your symptoms make no sense,” he summarized. “I’ve got a feeling some are due to one thing, some to another. Maybe we’ll have to wait until I come down with it and compare notes.”