He thumbed through the book slowly, his eye occasionally lingering over a bit of navigational lingo, course data, or computer figures—but only in passing, as if on the lookout for something else. Only one page stood out from all the others, the one headed:

Ship consigned to Ampers-Hart Shipyard for class A repairs.

The entry was three years old.

Let’s see what repairs were made. Out of idle curiosity he scanned the itemized list of part replacements, his incredulity growing from one item to the next: ablation shield, sixteen deck sections, shielding braces, airtight bulkheads…

New bulkheads and shielding braces?!

Okay, the agent had said something about an accident in the past. But accident, hell! Disaster would be more like it!

He flipped back a page to see what he could dig out of the entries that came before:

Port of destination: Mars. Payload: General cargo. Crew: Pratt—engineer and first officer. Wayne—second officer. Potter and Nolan - — pilots. Simon—mechanic…

Hm. No mention of the skipper.

He turned back another page and winced.

The date of the ship’s first command was—nineteen years ago! The signature of the ship’s first commanding officer read Momssen, first navigator.

Momssen!

A dry heat engulfed him.

It can’t be! Not the Momssen! But… that was on another ship!

The date squared, though; it was exactly nineteen years ago that… Whoa, there! Easy does it…

He went back to the log. A strong and legible hand, in faded ink. First day out. Second day, third day… Moderate reactor leakage: 0.42 roentgen per hour. All leaks sealed. Course coordinates such-and-such… Stellar fix…