The Skylark justified the faith of her builders, and the two inventors, with an exultant certainty of success, flew out beyond man’s wildest imaginings. Had it not been for the haunting fear for Dorothy’s safety, the journey would have been one of pure triumph, and even that anxiety did not preclude a profound joy in the enterprise.
“If that misguided ape thinks he can pull a stunt like that and get away with it he’s got another think coming,” Seaton declared, after making a reading on the other ship after a few days of flight. “He went off half-cocked for sure this time, and we’ve got him right where the hair is short. Only about a hundred light-years now. Better we reverse pretty quick, you think?”
“It’s hard to say—very hard. By our dead reckoning he seems to have started back; but dead reckoning is notoriously poor reckoning and we have no reference points.”
“Well, dead reckoning’s the only thing we’ve got, and anyway you can’t be a precisionist out here. A light-year plus or minus won’t make any difference.”
“No. I suppose not,” and Crane read off the settings which, had his data been exact, would put the Skylark in exactly the same spot with, and having exactly the same velocity as, the other spaceship at the point of meeting.
The big ship spun, with a sickening lurch, through a half-circle as the bar was reversed. They knew that they were traveling in a direction that seemed “down”, even though they still seemed to be going “up”.
“Mart ! C’mere.”
“Here.”
“We’re getting a deflection. Too big for a star—unless it’s another S-Doradus—and I can’t see a thing—theoretically, of course, it could be anywhere to starboard. I want a check, fast, on true course and velocity. Is there any way to measure a gravity field you’re falling freely in without knowing any distances? Any kind of an approximation would help.”
Crane observed, computed, and reported that the Skylark was being very strongly attracted by some object almost straight ahead.
“We’d better break out the big night-glasses and take a good look—as you said, this optical system could have more power. But how far away are they?”
“A few minutes over ten hours.”
“Ouch! Not good . . . veree ungood, in fact. By pouring it on, we could make it three or four hours . . . but . . . even so . . . you . . .”
“Even so. Me. We’re in this together, Dick; all the way. Just pour it on.”
As the time of meeting drew near they took readings every minute. Seaton juggled the power until they were very close to the other vessel and riding with it, then killed his engine. Both men hurried to the bottom port with their night-glasses and stared into star- studded blackness.
“Of course,” Seaton argued as he stared, “it is theoretically possible that a body can exist large enough to exert this much force and not show a disk, but I don’t believe it. Give me four or five minutes of visual angle and I’ll buy it, but—”
“There!” Crane broke in. “At least half a degree of visual angle. Eleven o’clock, fairly high. Not bright, but dark. Almost invisible.”
“Got it. And that little black spot, just inside the edge at half past four—DuQuesne’s job?”
“I think so. Nothing else in sight.”
“Let’s grab it and get out of here while we’re all in one piece!”
In seconds they reduced the distance until they could plainly see the other vessel: a small black circle against the somewhat lighter black of the dead star. Crane turned on the searchlight. Seaton focused their heaviest attractor and gave it everything it would take. Crane loaded a belt of solid ammunition and began to fire peculiarly-spaced bursts.
After an interminable silence DuQuesne drew himself out of his seat. He took a long drag at his cigarette, deposited the butt carefully in an ashtray, and put on his space-suit; leaving the faceplates open.
“I’m going after that copper, Miss Vaneman. I don’t know exactly how much of it I’ll be able to recover, but I hope . . .”
Light flooded in through a port. DuQuesne was thrown flat as the ship was jerked out of free fall. They heard an insistent metallic tapping, which DuQuesne recognized instantly.
“A machine gun!” he blurted in amazement. “What in . . . wait a minute, that’s Morse! A-R-E—are . . . Y-O-U—you . . . A-L-I-V-E—alive. . . .”
“It’s Dick!” Dorothy screamed. “He’s found us—I knew he would! You couldn’t beat Dick and Martin in a thousand years!”
The two girls locked their arms around each other in a hysterical outburst of relief; Margaret’s incoherent words and Dorothy’s praises of her lover mingled with their racking sobs.
DuQuesne had climbed to the upper port; had unshielded it. “S-O-S” he signalled with his flashlight.
The searchlight died. W-E K-N-O-W. P-A-R-T-Y O-K-?” It was a light this time, not bullets.
“O-K.” DuQuesne knew what “Party” meant—Perkins did not count.
“S-U-I-T-S-?”
“Y-E-S”
“W-I-L-L T-O-U-C-H L-O-C-K T-O L-O-C-K B-R-A-C-E S-E-L-V-E-S.”
“O-K”
DuQuesne reported briefly to the two girls. All three put on space-suits and crowded into the tiny airlock. The lock was pumped down. There was a terrific jar as the two ships of space were brought together and held together. Outer valves opened; residual air screamed out into the interstellar void. Moisture condensed upon glass, rendering sight useless.
“Blast!” Seaton’s voice came tinnily over the helmet radios. “I can’t see a foot. Can you, DuQuesne?”
“No, and these joints don’t move more than a couple of inches.”
“These suits need a lot more work. We’ll have to go by feel. Pass ’em along.”
DuQuesne grabbed the girl nearest him and shoved her toward the spot where Seaton would have to be. Seaton seized her, straightened her up, and did his heroic best to compress that suit until he could at least feel his sweetheart’s form.
He was very much astonished to feel motions of resistance and to hear a strange voice cry out, “Don’t! It’s me! Dottie’s next!”
She was, and she put as much fervor into the reunion as he did. As a lovers’ embrace it was unsatisfactory; but it was an eager, if distant, contact.
DuQuesne dived through the opening; Crane groped for the controls that closed the lock. Pressure and temperature came back up to normal. The clumsy suits were taken off. Seaton and Dorothy went into each other’s arms.
And this time it was a real lovers’ embrace.
“We’d better start doing something,” came DuQuesne’s incisive voice. “Every minute counts.”
“One thing first,” Crane said. “Dick, what shall we do with this murderer?”
Seaton, who had temporarily forgotten all about DuQuesne, whirled around.
“Chuck him back into his own tub and let him go to the devil!” he said, savagely.
“Oh, no, Dick!” Dorothy protested, seizing his arm. “He treated us very well, and saved my life once. Besides, you can’t become a cold-blooded murderer just because he is. You know you can’t.”
“Maybe no . . . Okay, I won’t kill him—unless he gives me about half an excuse . . . maybe.”
“Out of the question, Dick,” Crane decided. “Perhaps he can earn his way?”
“Could be.” Seaton thought for a moment, his face still grim and hard. “He’s smart as Satan and strong as a bull . . . and if there’s any possible one thing he is not, it’s a liar.”
He faced DuQuesne squarely, gray eyes boring into eyes of midnight black. “Will you give us your word to act as one of the party?”
“Yes.” DuQuesne stared back unflinchingly. His expression of cold unconcern had not changed throughout the conversation: it did not change now. “With the understanding that I reserve the right to leave you at any time—’escape’ is a melodramatic word, but fits the facts closely enough—provided I can do so without affecting unfavorably your ship, your project then in work, or your persons collectively or individually.”
“You’re the lawyer, Mart. Does that cover it?”
“Admirably,” Crane said. “Fully yet concisely. Also, the fact of the reservation indicates that he means it”
“You’re in, then,” Seaton said to DuQuesne, but he did not offer to shake hands. “You’ve got the dope. What’ll we have to put on to get away?”
“You can’t pull straight away—and live—but . . .”
“Sure we can. Our power-plant can be doubled in emergencies.”
“I said ‘and live.’ ” Seaton, remembering what one full power was like, kept still.
“The best you can do is a hyperbolic orbit, and my guess is that it’ll take full power to make that. Ten pounds more copper might have given me a graze, but we’re a lot closer now. You’ve got more and larger tools than I had, Crane. Do you want to recompute it now, or give it a good, heavy shot and then figure it?”
“A shot, I think. What do you suggest?”