II

Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in Greg

Malcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'

warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identified

as emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,

suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a ship

out of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power to

allay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,

with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining dome

down the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beams

in the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiff

cradled there.

He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening around

him, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterested

spectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews toward

the door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all the

weight of her body ... of her irate voice, "Cuddles! I forgot him!"

Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her as

they charged on down the corridor.

J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, "The

officers?" and his own unfelt assurance. "They can take care of

themselves. It's a general 'bandon ship." Enid Andrews stumbling over

the hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly and

bodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excited

body hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,

"'Tina!" ... and Hannigan's reply, "Your maid? I woke her. She's in the

life-skiff." Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middle

of the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, sure

nausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.

Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed the

port behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, the

quick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling of

weightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed and

his mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of their

escape.

Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking from

a nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.

A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. A

world peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son and

daughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,

the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did not

know). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.

Somewhere in space. He looked through the _perilens_. What he saw then

he might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veil

had wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of a

distant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht _Carefree_.

Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked toward

a mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutal

terrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that last

dreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame that

tried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.

For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought they

glimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the _Carefree_; a

mote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not be

sure, and then the _Carefree_ was accelerating with such violence and

speed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance against

the ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud of

flame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....

And Greg Malcolm turned from the _perilens_, shaken.

Hannigan said, "It's over?" and Greg nodded.

Hannigan said, "The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were they

caught?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see for sure."

"You must have seen. Are we the only ones?"

"I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not."

Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of other

huddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. "I'll take over

now, Malcolm."

* * * * *

It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendingly

at first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of the

small ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilization

and civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized until

this moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickening

while ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destinies

of ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that it

was for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was for

this brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greater

than knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, had

studied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That he

might be fitted to command when all others failed. And now--

And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,

mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And the

man at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,

trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....

"Very well, sir," he said. And he turned over the controls.

What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happened

to Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.

However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,

once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on the

life-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiff

jerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbing

motors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment that

lost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been drifting

easily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.

The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understood

the operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. And

that neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's hand

leaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's--and across both their

bodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.

In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. The

motors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Greg

cried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;

one of the women bleated fearfully.

Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but his

own. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,

in the illumined _perilens_, how near to swift death that moment of

uncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had been

high in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satellite

or whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground at

lightning speed.

* * * * *

Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun his

head, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Just

a hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, the

maid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in her

nether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.

Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performed

that miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...

a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His face

twisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled taut

and bloodless away from his teeth. "Hold tight, folks! We're going to

bounce--"

Then they struck!

But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,

and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shivered

and groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,

settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forward

something snapped with a shrill, high _ping!_ of stress; somewhere aft

was the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. But

they were safe.

Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escaped

Greg's lungs in a long sigh. "Nice work, Mr. Breadon!" he cried. "Oh,

nice work!"

But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.

"It would have been _better_ work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damned

hands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!

Our only--"

"He didn't do it!" piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. "You done it

yourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch."

"Quiet!" Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilled

the youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. "And you,

Malcolm--after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assume

responsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get out

and see how bad the damage is."

Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silenced

the cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He's

overwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been to

Bedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back to

normal.

He said quietly, "Very well, Mr. Breadon." And he climbed from the

broken skiff.

* * * * *