"And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near--" Breadon
stopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to pass
it off easily. "Oh, well--a change of scenery, what?"
But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. Crystal
Andrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.
"You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there--danger?"
But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,
defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,
Crystal's older brother.
"Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter with
you folks--are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in a
space-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can't
even see--and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all be
smashed as flat as pancakes!"
The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;
his vain plea, "Mr. Andrews--" was lost in the medley of Crystal's
sudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowing
roar at his only son.
"Bert--you're drunk!"
Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.
"Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. The
whole damn lot of you!" He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. "You
too, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do--hide the bad news from
them? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We're
gone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks!" He fell
into a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding the
too-high notes of his laughter.
J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there was
only deep concern in his voice.
"Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?"
Greg said soberly, "Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger--but
there is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.
Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in the
Heaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up."
Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.
"Is there anything we can do?"
"Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible."
"In that case," said the older woman, "we might as well finish our
breakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy!" She sat down again. Greg
looked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,
"The life-skiffs?"
"A last resort," said Greg. "Sparks promised he'd let me know if it
were necessary. We'll hope it's not--"
But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. For
even as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racing
footsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyes
hot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes for
safety.
"Everybody--the Number Four life-skiff--_quick_! We've been caught in a
grav-drag and we're going to crash!"