Inside the crippled _Comet_, a hard-bitten crew watched the life-giving oxygen run low. Outside, on Ceres' fabled Darkside, stalked death in awful, spectral form. The _Comet's_ control-room was silent except for the monotonous beat of Ken Grant's restless pacing. Six months on Ceres' frigid, shadowy Darkside had driven the tan from his face, etched lines of worry about his mouth. Darkside had a way of doing that to people. A temperature of five above absolute zero, the grim, eternal darkness, the insane landscape, combined to give an impression of unreality that made one feel he was living some terrible nightmare.…
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