 How did Peter get the scar on his cheek?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. He had been dead for some time now, but the dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face, trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop, from his fingertips. Outside, the stars were as before: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, like the machinery, and like Peter. It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was what Peter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic, either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled by eating or drinking. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, for reason had told me that he had to die. But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore. Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed with satisfaction. His dream was perfect; the Citadel was complete, every minutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would be laying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow, glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it lay finished, a living thing. Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shining ship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home. He could see, too, the level on level of laboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; the meteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at the stern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket of atmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would be a laboratory such as man had never seen. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.
 From an accidental talon scratch
 From an accidental talon scratch  From traveling through the dangerous rays.  From the construction of his ship  From the Invaders attack.