"Nobody's died yet," Weeks tried to find an opening in the net being
drawn about them.
"And nobody's recovered," Ali crushed that thread of hope. "We don't know
what it is, how it is contracted--anything about it. Let us make a report
saying that and you know what will happen--don't you?"
They weren't sure of the details, but they could guess.
"So I say," Ali continued, "the Old Man was right when he set us on an
evasion course. If we can stay out until we really know what is the
matter we'll have some chance of talking over the high brass at Luna when
we do planet--"
In the end they decided not to interfere with the course the Captain had
set. It would take them into the fringes of solar civilization, but give
them a fighting chance at solving their problem before they had to report
to the authorities. In the meantime they tended their charges, let Rip
sleep, and watched each other with desperate but hidden intentness, ready
for another to be stricken. However, they remained, although almost
stupid with fatigue at times, reasonably healthy. Time was proving that
their guess had been correct--they had been somehow inoculated against
the germ or virus which had struck the ship.
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