They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,
the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had
to build a new life on a hostile world. And the
man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the
bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures
had come through the pages of a book.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Spring 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. "If I was you," he said, "if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow."
Greg said, "Why not?"
Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.
"Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than theCarefree."
Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, "So it's that bad, eh,Sparks?"
"What bad? I just told you—"
"I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.
"We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?"
"I don't know what—" began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. "O.Q.," he confessed, "that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family."
"I won't tell them," said Greg. "I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?"
The radioman shrugged.
"Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens."
"And the controls?"
"As useless," said Sparks, "as a cow in a cyclone."
"So?"
"We sit tight," said Sparks succinctly, "and hope."
Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. "Well," hesaid, "that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome."
Sparks stared at him querulously.
"You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody."
"Nerves are a luxury I can't afford," replied Greg. "If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know." He paused at thedoor. "Good luck," he said.
"Clear ether!" said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head