star, sun, or planet lay in their path, were terrifying questions that had to be ignored.
DuQuesne was the only member of the party who actually felt any calmness, the quiet of the others expressing
their courage in facing fear.
The men took their places. Seaton started the motor which would automatically advance both power levers exactly
forty notches and then stop.
Margaret Spencer was the first to lose consciousness. Soon afterwards, Dorothy stifled an impulse to scream as
she felt herself going under. A half minute later and Crane went out, calmly analyzing his sensations to the last.
Shortly thereafter DuQuesne also lapsed into unconsciousness, making no effort to avoid it, as he knew that it
would make no difference in the end.
Seaton, though he knew it was useless, fought to keep his senses as long as possible, counting the impulses as the
levers were advanced.
Thirty-two. He felt the same as when he had advanced his lever for the last time.
Thirty-three. A giant hand shut off his breath, although he was fighting to the utmost for air. An intolerable weight
rested upon his eyeballs, forcing them back into his head. The universe whirled about him in dizzy circles; orange
and black and green stars flashed before his bursting eyes.
Thirty-four. The stars became more brilliant and of more wildly variegated colors, and a giant pen dipped in fire
wrote equations and symbols upon his quivering brain.
Thirty-five. The stars and the fiery pen exploded in pyrotechnic coruscation of searfing, blinding light and he
plunged into a black abyss.
Faster and faster the Skylark hurtled downward in her not-quite-hyperbolic path. Faster and faster; as minute by
minute went by, she came closer and closer to that huge dead star. Eighteen hours from the start of that fantastic
drop she swung around it in the tightest, hardest conceivable arc. Beyond Roche’s Limit, it is true, but so very little
beyond it that Martin Crane’s hair would have stood on end if he had known.
Then, on the back leg of that incomprehensibly gigantic swing, the forty notches of doubled power began really to
take hold. At thirty-six hours her path was no longer even approximately hyperbolic. Instead of slowing down, rela-
tive to the dead star that held her in an ever-weakening grip, she was speeding up at a tremendous rate.
At two days, that grip was very weak.
At three days the monster she had left was having no measurable effect.
Hurtled upward, onward, outward by the inconceivable power of the unleashed copper demons in her center, the
Skylark tore through the reaches of interstellar space with an unthinkable, almost incalculable velocity, beside
which the velocity of light was as that of a snail to that of a rifle bullet.
Seaton opened his eyes and gazed about him wonderingly. Only half conscious, bruised and sore in every part, he
could not remember what had happened. Instinctively drawing deep breath, he coughed as the plus-pressure gas
filled his lungs, bringing with it a complete understanding of the situation. He tore off his helmet and drew himself
across to Dorothy’s couch.
She was still alive!
He placed her face downward upon the floor and began artificial respiration. Soon he was rewarded by the coughing
he had longed to hear. Snatching off her helmet, he seized her in his arms, while she sobbed convulsively on his
shoulder. The first ecstasy of their greeting over, she started guiltily.
“Oh, Dick! See about Peggy-I wonder if . . :’ “Never mind,” Crane said. “She is doing nicely.”
Crane had already revived the stranger. DuQuesne was nowhere in sight. Dorothy blushed vividly and disengaged
her arms from around Seaton’s neck. Seaton, also blushing, dropped his arms and Dorothy floated away, clutching
frantically at a hand-hold just out of her reach.
“Pull me down, Dick!” Dorothy laughed.
Seaton grabbed her ankle unthinkingly, neglecting his own anchorage, and they floated in the air together. Martin
and Margaret, each holding a line, laughed heartily.
“Tweet, tweet-I’m a canary,” Seaton said, flapping his arms. “Toss us a line, Mart.”
“A Dicky-bird, you mean,” Dorothy said.
Crane studied the floating pair with mock gravity. “That is a peculiar pose, Dick. What is it supposed to
represent-Zeus sitting on his throne?”
“I’ll sit on your neck, you lug, if you don’t get a wiggle on with that rope!”
As he spoke, however he came within reach of the ceiling, and could push himself and his companion to a line.
Seaton put a bar into one of the engines and, after flashing the warning light, applied a little power. The Skylark
seemed to leap under them; then everything had its normal weight once more.
“Now that things have settled down a little,” Dorothy said, “I’ll introduce you two to Miss Margaret Spencer, a very
good friend of mine. These are the boys I told you so much about, Peggy. This is Dr. Dick Seaton, my fiance. He
knows everything there is to be known about atoms, electrons, neutrons, and so forth. And this is Mr. Martin Crane,
who is a simply wonderful inventor. He made all these engines and things.”
“I may have heard of Mr. Crane,” Margaret said, eagerly. “My father was an inventor, too, and he used to talk about a
man named Crane who invented a lot of instruments for supersonic planes. He said they revolutionized flying. I
wonder if you are that Mr. Crane?”
“That is unjustifiedly high praise, Miss Spencer,” Crane replied, uncomfortable, “but as I have done a few things
along that line I could be the man he referred to.”
“If I may change the subject,” Seaton said, “where’s DuQuesne?”
“He went to clean up. Then he was going to the galley to check damage and see about something to eat.”
“Stout fella!” Dorothy applauded. “Food! And especially about cleaning up-if you know what I mean and I think you
do. Come on, Peggy, I know where our room is.”
“What a girl!” Seaton said as the women left, Dorothy half-supporting her companion. “She’s bruised and beat up
from one end to the other. She’s more than half dead yet-she didn’t have enough life left in her to flag a handcar.
She can’t even walk; she can just barely hobble. And did she let out one single yip? I ask to know. ‘Business as
usual,’ all the way, if it kills her. What a girl!”
“Include Miss Spencer in that, too, Dick. Did she ‘let out any yips’? And she was not in nearly as good shape as
Dorothy was, to start with.”
“That’s right,” Seaton agreed, wonderingly. “She’s got plenty of guts, too. Those two women, Marty my old and
stinky chum, are blinding flashes and deafening reports. . . . Well, let’s go get a bath and shave. And shove the
air-conditioners up a couple of notches, will you?”
When they came back they found the two girls seated at one of the ports. “Did you dope yourself up, Doc?” Seaton
asked.
“Yes, both of us. With amylophene. I’m getting to be a slave to the stuff.” She made a wry face.
Seaton grimaced too. “So did we. Ouch! Nice stuff that amylophene.”
“But come over here and look out of this window. Did you ever see anything like it?”
As the four heads bent, so close together, an awed silence fell upon the little group. For the blackness of the black
of the interstellar void is not the darkness of an earthly night, but the absolute absence of light-a black beside
which that of platinum dust is merely grey. Upon this indescribably black backdrop there glowed faint patches
which were nebulae; there blazed hard, brilliant, multi-colored, dimensionless points of light which were stars.
“Jewels on black velvet,” Dorothy breathed. “Oh, gorgeous . . . wonderful!”
Through their wonder a thought struck Seaton. He leaped to the board. “Look here, Mart. I didn’t recognize a thing
out there and I wondered why. We’re heading away from the Earth and we must be making plenty of lightspeeds.
The swing around that big dud was really something, of course, but the engine should have . . . or should it?”
“I think not . . . Unexpected, but not a surprise. That close to Roche’s Limit, anything might happen.”
“And did, I guess. We’ll have to check for permanent deformations. But this object-compass still works-let’s see
how far we are away from home.”
They took a reading and both men figured the distance. “What d’you make it, Mart? I’m afraid to tell you my result.”
“Forty-six point twenty-seven light centuries. Check?” “Check. We’re up the well-known creek without a paddle. . . .
The time was twenty-three thirty-two by the chronometer-good thing you built it to stand going through a
stone-crusher. My watch’s a total loss. They all are, I imagine. We’ll read it again in an hour or so and see how fast
we’re going. I’ll be scared witless to say that figure out loud, too.”