"Oh, yes. Of course. Well, you know what zymase is, don't you?"
"No," I told him. "Do you?"
"Naturally. A nitrogenous substance. A freshly expressed concentrate
of yeast juice. Its action on sugar is to speed up, terrifically, the
ordinary process that transpires when sugar and yeast are brought
together. In short--_fermentation_!
"As soon as we emptied the zymase concentrate into the flood of
honey--for it was that, though I might never have guessed it in time
had it not been for you, dear!"
Here he beamed at Lorraine. "--the natural sugar was broken down into
carbon dioxide, glycerin, succinic acid, and--er--"
"Urr?" repeated Bowman curiously. "What's that? A new element? Never
heard of it."
"And--er--" said Johnny sheepishly, "alcohol! You see, that's why the
sailors and I were a trifle--confused--by the atmosphere surrounding
us--"
"Confused your hat!" I told him. "You were stewed! But it all makes
sense now. The fermentation naturally continued. It loosened up the
sticky goo, our blasts dragged us out of the trap. But, say! That alky
odor is still all through the ship. We can't air the joint while we're
traveling through space. Do you think--?"
But he didn't hear me. For this, after all, was the honeymoon trip of
Johnny Larkin. And now, the danger over, he had reverted to type. He
and Lorraine looked like a brace of intertwined pretzels.